102. Before

Well, who am I to claim I don't like theatrics?

I killed my dad then went downstairs and stood in the kitchen in the warm sunlight and thought: Georgia Smith, Barbra Streisand would be ashamed of you.

Sure, the marks of my hands were red around his neck. I would go to prison. But who would notice? Where was my grand finale?

I regretted leaving behind the flame thrower.

I turned on all the burners of my dad's stove without sparking them alight – why was gas allowed in a retirement village? – and then I lit the Ocean Breeze candle in the living room window and walked out the front door.

I sat on the bench opposite my dad's, hoping it was a safe distance. How long would it take for the gas to reach the candle? I was imagining Hiroshima, but perhaps it would be more like a bin fire on a damp night.

There was a blackbird singing in the tree behind me. My chest tingled.

Theo's car was gone. He would've headed for the motorway, because even though there were cameras, the other way was country roads and tiny villages: a dead end.

How far could he get before his tyres gave out? He'd have a spare but not two, and if the girls were in the boot, he'd have to let them out to get it. What then?

I wanted to sit on the bench and watch my dad's house burn, imagine the flesh slipping off his bones as the house caved in on itself, consumed by heat. Ideally, I'd have had a cup of coffee. But nothing's perfect. And I didn't want anything to happen to Jenna or Rose. So I sighed and reached for the car keys in my pocket.