SCARLETT WEPT.

Somewhere nearby, the woman burned, howling with pain. Scarlett could hear her and smell her but not see her. Oh, no, not that. She wouldn’t look, couldn’t look…

“You’re too late,” her father’s voice said. “Always too little, too late. Because you were too busy having a good time, too busy looking out for number one.”

Scarlett held the crying baby in her arms. She’d done her best to peel away the burning fabric, but some of the material had melted into the baby’s flesh and into hers. That was how she had gotten her scars, the ones that were itching like crazy now…itching yet not hurting. There was no pain. No physical pain, anyway. Reliving this moment, the moment of her great failure, was incredibly painful, especially with her father here, saying all these terrible things that Scarlett knew deep down were true.

“You’re pitiful,” her father said. “You disgust me.”

“I don’t want to die,” the woman in the car screamed.

Did she really shout that the night of the crash?

“Please don’t let me die!”

Now Scarlett turned and could see the woman’s face pressed against the window, staring out at her, blood draining from the split in her hairline, tears streaming from her face. “Why won’t you save me?”

Scarlett could hear the woman plainly, as if she, too, were in the car, could hear her and hear the crackling flames and feel the tremendous heat.

I have to help her!

She handed the baby to Sav—only it wasn’t Sav; it was Scarlett’s father—and rushed back in to save the woman…or rather, she tried to rush forward again. Her legs barely moved, they were so heavy with fatigue.

The corners of her mouth betrayed her, lifting into a mocking smile. You’re not tired. You’re high and drunk, and this is it, this is the life, right here…

She felt a wave of intense pleasure and saw Seamus’s head between her legs.

“Please save me!” the woman cried.

You really should help her, she thought, but a warm breeze soothed over her and carried that thought away.

Why bother? The woman didn’t say those things. This isn’t real. In reality, Scarlett had saved the baby, but there hadn’t been time to save the woman.

Besides, she felt awesome now. Why in the world would she interrupt Seamus?

“You don’t care about me,” her mother’s voice said.

She turned her head and saw not her mother but the woman behind the wheel, speaking to her in her mother’s voice. “Is this what you want? Are you trying to kill me?” The flames rose all around her, leaping from her burning clothes to ignite her hair in a halo of flame, and Scarlett smelled her burning.

Do something, she told herself. Get her out of there!

But she couldn’t move, could only lie there, high as a kite, the smell of her mother’s burning flesh filling her nostrils as Seamus pleasured her.

Scarlett gagged.

“Don’t you dare puke,” her father said. “You’re so weak.”

All pleasure disappeared. She wasn’t high or drunk. Seamus had vanished. She was just a little girl, and her father was back from the war, and the house was cold, and she was shaking like crazy, shivering from fear, and she just wanted to make it stop, wanted to escape, wanted to run away or fall asleep…anything to make it stop.

“You only care about yourself,” her father said, and Scarlett ached, knowing it was true, hating that it was true. Always had been, always would be.

I’m nothing but a self-centered piece of shit.

“You had so much potential,” her father said. “Good brain, good looks, good family. School, sports, boys…everything was easy for you. And what do you do with all those advantages? Nothing, that’s what. You don’t care enough to try. You just coast along until you get into trouble, and then you sweet-talk your way out of it.”

The truth burned into her, seared into her mind and heart and soul like battery acid.

“You don’t deserve to attend The Point,” her father said. “You just lucked out and woke up one day with superpowers. And still you coasted. Why? Because you’re lazy and weak and don’t care about anyone or anything.”

She wanted to shout back at her father, wanted to tell him that it wasn’t true, that her whole life she really had cared, that she really had tried, it was just that something always ended up happening…but those thoughts died beneath the roar of her own self-loathing.

Soft and weak and lazy like a little baby.

The woman screamed, burning.

“You didn’t even try to save her,” her father said.

“I tried to save her.”

“You didn’t try to save him. You weren’t even there.”

Him?

The screaming changed, deepening…and called her name. “Scarlett! Help me!”

No, Scarlett thought, filling with terror. Not this. Anything but this.

Hands turned her head, forcing her to look at that which she did not wish to see.

Flames engulfed Dan’s overturned Jeep. He hung upside down in the driver’s seat, trapped, burning…staring out at Scarlett, pleading to her, “Please help me, Scarlett!”

“Your own brother,” her father’s voice said, “and you just let him die.”

No, Scarlett thought, I never would have…I didn’t know…

Her excuses scrambled for purchase within her, found none—everything is my fault—and tumbled into the pit of fire burning at her center, the white-hot hell she’d been tending with pride and greed and sloth, the hell in which she’d burned those foolish enough to trust or love her, the hell to which she herself would one day go, and not a moment too soon…for it was she who deserved to burn, she who deserved damnation in the lake of fire that she’d made of her life.

“Your own brother,” her father said again. “Your own mother.”

And everything changed.

No more fire, no more screaming, no more pressing heat.

Now everything was still and cold and quiet…quiet as death. The field was gone. The burning woman was gone. Dan was gone, taking his screams with him. All that remained was the terrible knowledge that Scarlett was selfish and worthless and everything was her fault.

Her father’s voice spoke as the cold room came into focus. “Your own mother.”

Scarlett gasped and let out a strangled cry, “Mom?”

“All your fault,” her father said. He stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder, both of them staring down at the bed where her mother lay dead beneath a blanket of empty prescription bottles, spilled wine, and vomit.

This isn’t real, Scarlett told herself as an icy corkscrew of terror drilled into her heart. Mom is alive. This is just a dream, a nightmare. I’m almost certain that Mom’s still alive.

Her father’s voice said, “How could she possibly carry on with only you for a child?”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Spare me, Scarlett,” he said. “You never deserved The Point. Dan did. But you fixed that, didn’t you? Dan’s dead, and your mother’s dead…all because of you.”

Scarlett stared into her mother’s cloudy, lifeless eyes. “I’m so sorry, Mom. I never—”

“It’s okay,” a voice said. “It’s all right now, Scarlett.” The voice was deep and smooth and familiar. A hand stroked her scalp gently. The image of her mother faded. “You are forgiven. You are delivered.”

Scarlett was awake. She lay trembling and soaked in sweat within the machine, tears leaking from her burning eyes. Was it true? Was she really forgiven? The room came slowly into focus, and joy leaped in her heart when she saw who sat beside her, stroking her head. “Dan?”

But that wasn’t possible. Dan was dead—all your fault, all your fault!—and this was reality. She had escaped the dream, so…

She shook her head.

It wasn’t Dan beside her. Not at all. Dan never wore Wayfarers.