As he drew closer to his house and his sure-to-be-livid father, Jason noticed something bright on the horizon. Smoke billowed into the night sky. Fire. A fire truck blared as it rounded a corner and headed up the street. An ambulance followed a moment later.

It looked like the fire was near Jason’s house. The closer he got to its source, the faster his heart thudded, until he couldn’t deny the reality. The fire was at his house. He ran the last two blocks. Firefighters were racing down the street, hooking up a fire hose to the nearest hydrant. Neighbors were coming out of their houses in their pajamas, holding each other, watching the destruction in awe. Jason stared at his burning house in disbelief, walking into the yard in a trance. Huge flames were licking from his broken bedroom window. He could hear his father in the house screaming his name. “Jason! Son, where are you?”

“Dad, I’m here!”

There was a loud splintering sound, and the roof over his room collapsed in a spray of sparks. The first jets of water from the hoses blasted into the flames, hissing as water evaporated into steam.

“Dad!”

He darted toward the house and made it as far as the porch before someone grabbed him around the waist. “Let me go,” he demanded, struggling with all his strength. “He’s still inside. My dad. I think he’s upstairs. I heard him calling for me. But…”

A pair of firemen busted down the front door. He could hear them yelling to each other inside the house. “Give me a hand. Someone’s trapped under this beam.” Eventually one of them emerged, carrying a limp body over one shoulder. “Medic! We need a medic over here.”

The charred body he laid on the ground was Jason’s father. “My son,” he murmured, clinging to the firefighter’s boot. Coherent sentences were garbled with indistinguishable syllables. “Save my son. I locked him in his room. I couldn’t get to the door. The roof collapsed.” He coughed, his eyes glazed with pain. “He’s still in there.” If it weren’t for his familiar voice, Jason wouldn’t have recognized him. His skin was so severely burned he was unidentifiable.

Jason stood over him, trembling. “I’m here, Dad. I’m okay.”

“Chopper’s on its way,” a paramedic said. “We’ll get him to the burn center as soon as we can.”

“How did you get out?” his father murmured. “Did you set the house on fire? Did you? I wouldn’t put it past you, you little punk. You did, didn’t you? To get back at me for grounding you. For tossing your stupid bass guitar in the garbage.”

Jason shook his head. “No. I didn’t do it.” He glanced up at his room. There was no doubt that the fire had started there. It’s where the damage was centered. As Jason watched, the tattered remains of a blanket fluttered from the porch roof as a blast of water unsettled it from its perch. He recognized his bedspread, half burnt. The bedspread he’d placed over the broken glass in the windowsill. And his space heater. The heater he’d forgotten to turn off after he’d burnt his wrist.

Then he realized. He had started the fire.

Jason gripped his right wrist with punishing strength, pressing the leather bracelet into his blistered flesh until his vision tunneled.

They let Jason ride in the helicopter when they learned he had no other way to the hospital. No other family. No one who cared about him. Jason couldn’t stand their looks of pity. Or his father’s nonsensical jabbering. Dad was delirious with pain and kept repeating, “It’s all your fault. All your fault.”

Jason huddled in the corner, his hands over his ears, no longer a young man of fifteen, but a scared little boy. With nothing. No one. He was alone. Alone. With no one to hurt him. Hurt him when he needed it.

They’d taken his father into the treatment center as soon as the helicopter landed. Asked Jason if he wanted to be with him. Warned him that his dad probably wouldn’t make it through the night. “You might want to say good-bye to him, son,” some doctor had said at one point.

But he hadn’t. He’d been too afraid, just like with his mother. His last memory of his father was lidless eyes staring at him blankly as they wheeled the gurney into the treatment center.

Jace started awake, his heart thudding in his chest, the image of his hideously burned father circulating in his mind. The room was entirely dark, but he could hear her breathing, feel the gentle motion of the bus. Both brought him comfort. He loved being on the road. And he loved her. His Aggie.

His hand sought Aggie’s under the covers. He clung to her fingers, feeling stupid for needing her so much, for seeking her support, while she slept unaware of his turmoil. It wasn’t as if she could do anything about the ghosts that haunted him. About the pain of his father’s memory. The guilt Jace felt. The fear.

Or maybe she could. She’d helped him deal with the pain of losing his mother. Her memory was still in the shadows, but no longer threatening. He’d found solace. Aggie had given that to him. She managed to give him everything he needed. Even things he hadn’t realized were important. When the sun came up, he watched her sleep, wondering how he’d survive if he lost her too.

Aggie opened her eyes to find Jace staring at her. She smiled, stretching lethargically.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” she murmured. “What are you doing awake so early?”

“I’m ready,” he said.

She grinned, wrapped an arm around his neck, and shifted closer to his warm body. “I figured after last night you’d be satisfied for a couple days at least.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said seriously. “I’m ready to tell you.”

Her heart skipped a beat, and her smile faded. “About your dad?”

“Yeah.”

She wasn’t sure if she wanted him to tell her. He’d said that he’d killed him. What if he had done something truly unforgivable? Would her feelings for him change? She didn’t want that. She was incredibly happy with Jace. She’d never felt this way about a man for long, and she wasn’t ready for this to end. She knew he was taking a huge step in confiding in her, however, so it wasn’t as if she could refuse to listen. She had to be strong. She knew his burden was too great for one set of shoulders.

Aggie struggled to free her arm from the tangled sheet then lifted her hand to stroke his brow tenderly. “I’m listening.”

He closed his eyes. “Where do I start?”

She didn’t think he was really addressing the question to her, so she waited for him to proceed.

“I wasn’t an easy teenager. I got into a lot of trouble. At home. At school. With the law. The more Dad tried to straighten me out, the more I acted out. Yelling at me didn’t work. Physical punishment didn’t work. Grounding. Taking away my possessions. Nothing worked. At the time I hated him, but not nearly as much as he hated me. For five years we lived like that—in constant opposition.”

“Rebellion isn’t unusual, baby. Many teenagers grow that way,” Aggie said and touched his face. “Did he beat you?”

Jace shrugged. “I preferred that to the yelling. The bruises faded, but the words, they’re still with me.”

He ducked his head, his eyes closed. She waited for him to get himself together. After a moment, he looked into her eyes. “The day he died.” He took a deep breath. “The day I killed him, I was supposed to be grounded in my room. I snuck out to be with a girl. Kara Sinclair.”

“Sinclair?”

“Brian’s little sister.”

“I didn’t know you knew the guys back then. How old were you?”

“Fifteen. I knew the band, but they didn’t know me. I dated Kara to get close to them, but… and then a few months later, she…” He shook his head. “That’s a story for a different day. While I was out…” His eyes drifted to her forehead. “Losing my virginity actually.” When he flushed, she couldn’t help but grin. He looked sort of sick to his stomach for a few seconds, but it passed. “While I was out with Kara, the house caught fire. It started in my room. Dad thought I was locked inside, so he went upstairs to get me. I wasn’t there. He’d grounded me, locked me in my room. I was supposed to be there, but I wasn’t, Aggie. If I hadn’t disobeyed… if I hadn’t broken a window and snuck out to have a good time… if I hadn’t turned that heater on, or remembered to turn it off.” He unfastened the cuff he always wore on his right wrist and showed her the skin beneath—burn scars too numerous to count. “I turned the heater on to do this to myself, and later I put the blanket over it without thinking. That started the fire. The curtains caught. Then the furniture. If I’d listened to him, my Dad would never have gotten trapped in the flames. He wouldn’t have suffered third-degree burns on ninety percent of his body. He wouldn’t have died hours later.” He stared into her eyes, daring her to deny his involvement. The pain he worked so hard to conceal was right there on the surface, so tangible she believed she could touch it. “It should have been me. I should have been the one to die. I killed him, Aggie. I might as well have shot him in the head.”