“I would die for her. I would kill for her. Either way, what bliss.”

— Gomez, The Addams Family

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ONE

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CELESTIAL FIRE

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KYRIE

By the time we’re standing at the gates of damnation, Jack Sorensen will beg me to throw him to the Devil. I will paint our path to Hell with his blood. With his dreams. His aspirations. His failures, each one rendered by my hand. I will leave a trail of his destruction behind us that will shine for all eternity. And I will enjoy every fucking second of his torturous journey…

Just as soon as my acceptance speech for the Allistair Brentwood Philanthropy Awards is over.

I scan the crowd. Dr. Sorensen’s absence will become a thin scar over my memory of this day, cut with the precision of a scalpel, just like he intended. Nevertheless, my smile is undimmed. I clap with enthusiasm for the other winners. When Joy Lin brings over champagne, we clink glasses and toast one another. I’m just as effervescent as the bubbles clinging to the flute. But when they slide down my throat, they burst in the heat of my rage.

“Is Jack backstage? I haven’t seen him all night. Is he actually here?” Joy asks, her eyes darting across the room of black ties and bleached smiles before her gaze lands on mine, heavy with scrutiny. I smooth my hand over the chestnut waves cascading over my shoulder as I give her a nonplussed shrug.

“No big deal if he’s not. I’m sure Dr. Cannon will present,” I reply, only allowing myself to grind my teeth when Joy looks away with a grimace.

Of course he’s not fucking here.

Sure enough, as the host sets up the award for Philanthropy in Education, it’s Dr. Cannon’s name he announces to give the introductory speech, not Dr. Sorensen.

No, not Dr. Sorensen.

Jack Sorensen, whose research wouldn’t be funded without my efforts to raise over two million dollars for his field school. Whose students have been awarded scholarships from the fund I created. Whose accolades have been stacked on the foundation that I built. Without me, Jack Sorensen would be just another brilliant academic whose work shines like a distant star in the sky, pretty but underwhelming, always battling to be freed from the black blanket of mediocrity. Because of me, Jack Sorensen shines like the harvest moon.

I am the sun whose light reflects on his cold, remote mask.

And I am the celestial fire that will destroy him.

“…and since joining the West Paine University faculty three years ago, Dr. Roth has dedicated her free time to enhancing the W. M. Bass Forensic College Field Research School, enabling the university to acquire nearly fifty acres in field research space with our newly-opened specialized laboratory facilities on-site,” Dr. Cannon says as images of students working in the pristine lab appear on the screen backdrop, stealing my attention from spiraling thoughts of murder by match and gasoline. “She has played a critical role in the body donation program, has been instrumental in creating a world-class academic conference that draws the best forensic professionals to West Paine University annually, and founded a scholarship program that supports the education of three deserving graduate students each year.” Dr. Cannon finds me beneath the spotlights illuminating the stage and smiles with genuine warmth. “I am honored to present Dr. Roth with the Brentwood Award for Philanthropy in Education.”

The crowd claps and I rise from my seat next to Joy. My smile widens, words of congratulations guiding my way to the stage. I gather the floor-length skirt of my gown as I ascend the steps and stride to the podium to shake Dr. Cannon’s hand. His sweaty, hot palm grips mine and I hold the etched glass award by its mahogany base as the event photographer takes our picture. When Dr. Cannon finally lets go and steps back, I look across the room.

My attention snags on a tall figure in the shadows close to the doors. He leans against the wall with a drink in hand, perfectly at ease in the absence of the light.

Jack Fucking Sorensen.

I force my gaze away and smile across the audience. “Thank you so much, Dr. Cannon, for the wonderful introduction. And to the Brentwood Foundation, I deeply appreciate the opportunity to not only accept this award, but also to shamelessly plug our university’s exceptional forensics program. I see you over there, Mrs. Spencer. Don’t think I’m not coming by your table before the night is done,” I joke, and the crowd laughs as the ancient woman waves, stacks of diamonds glittering on her fingers. “But in all seriousness, I owe my gratitude to generous donors like Mrs. Spencer. Since I joined West Paine University, I had a vision of what we could become: one of the top forensics research facilities in the country. Your support has allowed us to achieve and maintain that status. Our students are the best of the next generation of forensic scientists and crime scene investigators, and they are learning and honing their skills in a world-class academic environment. Our faculty is leading the field in forensic research, contributing to significant advancements in forensic archaeology, entomology, and botany. These achievements would not be possible without our donors. I’m humbled by this recognition and would like to thank my colleagues who are instrumental in our ongoing success.”

I proceed to list off every name I have memorized. Hugh Cannon. Joy Lin. Amal, Christine, Luke. Madeleine Gauthier, even though she’s as useful as tits on a rock. Brad Thompson, even though he’s often dim and sometimes a douche. Mike Mitchner, the head custodian of the labs, even he gets a shout-out.

The one name I do not speak is Jack Sorensen.

He was going to be at the top of my list. The name that draws so much attention to our academic program. The head lecturer of our Forensic Anthropology department, whose research in human decomposition has put us on the map.

I leave him out.

I find Jack in the shadows, imagining every detail of his face, his cold gray eyes veiled by darkness. I hold his figure with a charming smile. “Now that I’ve named literally everyone but my dog and my second cousin twice removed, I just wanted to say a final thank you,” I say as the audience laughs. My eyes stay latched to the phantom at the door as I raise the award, then I slide my gaze to a table in the middle of the front row. “To the Brentwood family, who continue Allistair’s legacy of generosity and commitment to others with such a lovely event. I’m honored. Thank you.”

The audience claps. Photos flash. I smile. I wave. I descend the steps to more words of congratulations and stride back to my table.

Joy passes me a champagne flute but holds on to the stem. “You forgot someone,” she says.

I pry the chilled glass from her fingers. “I’m not sure what you mean, Joy. Cheers.” I clink my flute to hers and turn away to the sound of her sigh.

“Congratulations, Kyrie,” Dr. Cannon says as he sits to my right and picks up my award to examine the lettering etched on the glass. “Another accolade to add to your impressive collection. Will you be using this one as a bookend or a paperweight?”

“Neither. I’ll polish it daily and I might even keep it at the very center of my desk.” …Where it will surely irritate Jack every time he’s forced to walk past my office.

“I hope my introduction was sufficient. I do apologize about Jack, it must have been a pressing conflict to keep him tied up.”

“The introduction was lovely, Hugh. Thank you,” I say with a pat on his weathered hand as I paste on a saccharine smile. “Actually, I believe I saw Dr. Sorensen arrive while I was on stage. Do you think he’d have time to speak with Mrs. Spencer? She’s about due for her annual donation and you know how much she loves speaking with him.”