“Is that why you killed your father—because he touched you like Joseph did?”

I stop seeking a way to ease the sting of Joseph’s chubby fingers on my thigh by shifting my focus to Dexter. He has been as quiet as me the past twenty minutes. I’m not giving him the cold shoulder; I was merely giving him time to calm the manic tick in his jaw.

He’s mad. Rightfully so. His friend was kind enough to invite us for dinner, but instead of thanking him for the meal, I spent the two hours planning his demise. It is lucky Dexter announced I could leave when he did, or I may have done something very bad.

Joseph is not a nice man. He taunts his daughter, Scarlett, as badly as my father criticized me. No matter what she said or did, he treated her like scum. He even made her sit on the floor instead of joining us at the table. Seeing her degraded like that filled me with horrible memories. Unfortunately not all of them revolve around my father.

Perhaps if I hadn’t skipped my medication, I may have responded differently to Joseph’s overfriendliness. But with my mind the clearest it’s ever been, all I felt was dirty when he continually touched me. The looks he gave me when his pinkie grazed my vagina through my jeans mimicked the ones Dexter used while shaving me, but not once did I get an enjoyable tingle. They made me feel like I am in desperate need of a shower. . . and had me thinking recklessly. That’s why I bolted when Dexter gave me permission to leave. It was either leave or stab my fork in Joseph’s eye.

The crimp of my lips is pushed aside for a frown when Dexter growls, “Megan. . .” The vicious snarl of my name reminds me I failed to answer him.

I shake my head without pause for deliberation. My dad was a terrible man, but overzealous hands weren’t the reason I killed him. He hurt my mom. If that wasn’t bad enough, he was a giant obstacle when it came to my relationship with Nick. He said there was only one way I could return to Nick—over his dead body. I took his threat as literal.

Once it was done, I thought I would be free.

I had no clue there would be multiple challenges for me to face. Nick didn’t want me. No matter what I said or did, he continually pushed me away. I thought he’d look at me with pride when I told him I had taken care of everything so we could be together. All he did was glare at me in disgust. He yelled at me and called me a liar before suggesting I “take care” of our baby.

Although confused earlier, with my veins being weaned off medication, I remember what occurred to the baby I was having with Nick. I never had an abortion. The doctors said I was never pregnant, that I had a neurological psychosis that made me believe I was carrying Nick’s baby when I wasn’t. I mourned our baby even though it never existed. It was the only part of Nick I truly owned, and it wasn’t even real.

Bad memories stop playing havoc with my mind when Dexter asks, “Was it in retaliation for what happened to your mom?”

I peer up at him, surprised by his tone. He seems genuinely interested in discovering why I killed my father, like it is more important than his next breath. Is he shocked I’m a killer? Or worried I’m going to hurt him?

If he’s worried, he doesn’t need to be. I don’t regret what happened to my father. I did what needed to be done. But murder isn’t something I regularly attempt.

Well, it wasn’t.

I didn’t have a choice with Bryce. I either killed him, or he killed Dexter. Dexter is nice to me; Bryce wasn’t. It made my decision so much easier.

When Dexter glares at me, frustrated by my lack of conversation, I half-shrug. His death can be attributed to both my mom and Nick. . . and if I am being honest, me also. As I said, my father was not a kind man.

“Hmm. . .” Dexter murmurs in a long drawl. “That’s understandable. I had considered doing the same thing to my father when he killed my mother.” He returns his eyes to the pitch black sky, his face deadpan. “He loved her. She just wouldn’t conform. First she took me to a local shrink without his permission, then she poisoned our food with medication. At one stage, it felt like I was losing them both, so I guess it is better to lose one parent than be an orphan like you.”

A grunt simpers through my mouth before I can stop it. I love that he is being open and honest with me, but I wish he could do it without the insults. Dexter has a hard, seemingly impenetrable shell, but I know deep down in a tiny crevice in the bottom of his heart is a spot just for me.

Dexter’s snickered amusement at my cranky response furls my lips. “Don’t get me wrong, I like orphans. I like them a lot.” His brows waggle during his last statement, his mood drastically improved from what it was. “It just makes you vulnerable to people like me.”

My brow arches, wordlessly demanding further explanation. I understand orphans don’t have their parents’ guidance, but how does it make them easy prey? If anything, it should make them harder nuts to crack as they grow up fast.

Well, I assume that is the case.

I’ve matured more the past twenty-four hours than I have the past decade. I’m unsure if Dexter’s presence is the source of my newfound wisdom, or if it’s because my veins are being weaned of the medication they’ve been pumping through me the past sixteen years. Whatever it is, I’m the most wired I’ve ever been.

My absentminded hunt for my prescription ends when Dexter says, “Orphans feel unloved, so they seek love in unhealthy ways. Take your relationship with Nick as an example. He could do whatever the fuck he wanted, and you were always there waiting for him. Am I right?”

I want to shake my head. I want to call him an idiot and tell him to leave me alone, but since his comment is the most honest thing I’ve heard him say, I nod instead.

“See? Vulnerable. Nick is a wanker. He fucked anything that walked before he got a random girl pregnant, then he married her to save face, most likely at the request of his publicist. Stupid. No other words.” Dexter’s eyes stray from the road to me. “You should be glad you didn’t get lumped with his kid. You would have been tied to him for life.”

My brain struggles to absorb the enormity of his reply. He’s not making any sense. Isn’t he taking me back to Nick so I can be with him for eternity? If not, why are we traveling to Ravenshoe in the darkness of the night?

Only yesterday morning, the idea of seeing Nick again filled my stomach with butterflies. Tonight has the same effect, but these butterflies have nasty stingers in their backsides and yellow and black stripes. I love Nick—I always will—but as my mind clears, I’m realizing he has given me nothing but years of pain.

Maybe Dexter is right? Maybe I was vulnerable because I was an orphan? My father was alive when I met Nick, but he may as well have been dead. He never left his favorite recliner which sat in front of the TV—not even to use the bathroom. I practically raised myself after my mother died. It was a very lonely and dark time.

Before Nick came into my life, I tried to end it many times. That’s how we met. I was on my way home from a short stay at a facility similar to Meadow Fields. Dr. Marc said it would only take one person to revive my will to live. He was right. It was Nick—“was” being the operative word.

My transfer to Meadow Fields was a result of my sixth failed attempt at suicide in the past year. It was a more secure facility that could handle patients “like me.” I didn’t want to die. I just wanted to end the misery, to stop the intense pain that shreds through my heart for every second of every day.

Already hating the blubbering idiot I’m about to become, I slip my prescription from my pocket and tap three pills into my palm. My movements are soundless, but Dexter must have supersonic hearing.

“What’s that?”

His question is delivered so sternly, I jump, which in turn, knocks the tablets from my hand. After gathering the discarded pills from the dark-fiber carpet, I toss the half-full bottle to Dexter. He veers back onto the right side of the road before dropping his eyes to the tattered label.

I’m so distracted by the massive hole burrowing in my chest, I swallow the pills whole. It is no easy feat with how dry my throat is, but I’ll suffer the injustice if it stops stupid emotions from bombarding me. I don’t like feeling like this—dirty and unhinged. I’d rather be emotionless than miserable.

“Fuck!” Dexter’s tug on the steering wheel is so violent, my temple smacks the frosty glass.

While I cradle my throbbing skull, he throws off his seatbelt, tosses open his door, then stomps to my side of his car. The hinges squeal in protest when he violently flings open my door.

“Ugh!” I grunt when he drags me from my seat. He’s in such a hurry, he doesn’t bother removing my belt. It is lucky I’m barely over five feet four in height, or I’d be a tangled mess.

“Do you have any idea what’s in those pills?” Dexter growls under his breath, his angry snarl quickening my pulse more rapidly than the medication seeping into my veins. “How many did you swallow?”

If he wants me to answer him, he needs to remove his fingers from my throat.

“This is their way of mind-fucking you, Megan! By making you stupid, you won’t fight back. Is that what you want? Do you want them to win?” He shoves his fingers to the very back of my throat, making me gag.

“You were born this way, Megan. This is who you are. Don’t let a bunch of pricks in white coats tell you any different. Every sunrise creates a shadow for bad people to hide in. Every dream unlocked invites thieves to steal it so you’re forced to create more. Just like every person has a little bit of black in their heart. Greed. Incest. Adultery. People act on their desires every single day, so why should we hide ours just because they’re a little darker than average?”

He continues ramming his fingers down my throat until the three pills are discharged on the roadside—along with my dinner. It’s probably for the best. I wasn’t feeling too good after guzzling down the red drink Joseph kept serving me.

“How many did you take?” Dexter asks, bobbing down to count the number of pills in my vomit. “One. . . two. . .” He pushes a large chunk of meatball to the side. It is so substantial in size, it looks like I didn’t chew before swallowing. “. . . three. Did you only take three?”

He raises his eyes to mine, knowing no words will escape my lips. A spark of relief fires through his squinted gaze when I nod.

“Good.” He licks his dry lips before continuing, “Do you have any more prescriptions besides what’s in this bottle?”

My headshake is pushed aside for a squeal when he pegs my medication into the dense tree line curving around the roadside. I’d go in search of them, but his throw is so impressive, I know I have no chance of finding them.

Returning my eyes to Dexter, I silently ask, Why did you do that?

“Because I’m saving this.” He taps his index finger on my temple. “Those pills are vile, Megan. They make you into a robot who says and does exactly what it is told to do. They aren’t medication; they’re sedatives prescribed to control every aspect of your life.” He locks his eyes with mine, the possessiveness in them making me hot. “I can sure as hell tell you, if anyone is going to control your life, it won’t be a fucking tablet. It will be me!”

He throws his head back before scrubbing his hand down his face violently. He appears as stunned by his declaration as I am. I knew he cared for me, but what he just did, and hearing him say what he just said, I don’t have any words. I am utterly speechless.

It is probably for the best when Dexter’s eyes missile back to mine. They’re not as stern as they were when he entered his car over an hour ago. They’re more worried than agitated. “How long have you been taking that prescription? From your lack of maturity and sexual awareness, I’m guessing it was before you turned sixteen?”

Although my ego sports a bruise from his underhanded criticism, I still nod. Second only to obeying his every command, honesty was my dad’s number one policy.

Dexter bites out a string of profanities, “How old exactly? Sixteen? Fifteen? Fourteen?”

He stops counting when he reaches twelve. Not because he’s given up, but because of the dip of my chin.

My heart stops beating when he shouts, “Twelve! You’re fucking twelve. Great!”

I shake my head before stomping my foot. I am not twelve!

My immature display doesn’t help plead my cause, but it does gain me Dexter’s attention. “I don’t mean literally; I mean in here.” He taps my temple once more. “If you’ve been taking those tablets since you were twelve, your brain is stuck in a time warp. It still thinks you’re twelve. . .”

He stops talking as his face screws up. I can’t tell if it is a good grimace or a bad one.

“If you think you’re twelve. . . does that mean. . . Are you. . . Has anyone popped your cherry?”

I balk at the crudeness of his tone.

When I attempt to shut down his interrogation by returning to his car, he grips my elbow firmly, stopping my fast exit. “Answer the question, Megan. Has anyone popped your cherry?”

His deep voice sends heat rushing to my cheeks. Once again, I don’t know if it is a good bloom or a bad one. Considering it coincides with a warm slickness forming between my legs, I am going to assume it is good.

Incapable of a more suitable response, I pull a face as if he is being ridiculous. It’s all a ploy. I’m not exactly sure what “popping my cherry” means, so I’m fairly certain I haven’t done it.

“Has a man ever put his cock in you? In your mouth? Your hand? Your pussy?” There he goes with the dipping tone again, and I’m not going to mention his mind-reading capabilities.

Although mortified at the direction of our conversation, I shake my head. It is fast, but instantly affects Dexter’s sanity. His second string of curse words vibrates my chest, alerting me and half the population of America to his anger. I don’t know why he is angry. Shouldn’t he be pleased?

“Of course you’re a virgin. That’s why Lee was itching to have you beneath him. Every man loves the smear of virginal blood on his cock.”

If my stomach weren’t empty, I may have vomited at his comment. You’re a pig.

When he snickers at my soundless remark, I roll my eyes before heading toward his car. This time, he lets me go. Regrettably.

While latching my seatbelt, I run our conversation through my head. Some of what Dexter said makes sense: I don’t feel like I’ve aged a day since I began taking the pills he disposed of. But the part about virginal blood was disgusting. . .and it makes my insides tingle. But we’re going to ignore that. I’ve got enough confusion to wade through; I can’t add bizarre sensations into the mix.