“Claudia. . . what the fuck? I told you to run.”

Dexter’s words are slurred, his face as white as Bryce’s. When he stumbles forward, I barely catch him before he hits the dirt as rapidly as Bryce did. With him being a good foot taller than me and at least thirty pounds heavier, it takes all my strength to keep him upright so we can continue into the woods.

I wasn’t sure if the bangs I heard ricocheting off the dense tree line were from the thunder clapping above my head or gunshots. Now I know without a doubt. I shouldn’t have turned around. I should have kept running until my legs gave out from exhaustion, but after hearing the things Lee and Bryce planned to do tonight, I would never truly be free if Dexter didn’t also escape.

I’ve been seeking a way out of this hellhole for years, but with the front doors secured with a pick-proof lock, I could never hatch a suitable escape plan. That’s why I toed the line like a good, obedient girl. When my mother died, I wanted to fall to my knees and weep. My father would have none of it. She was not to be mourned. She was forgotten, pushed to the back of my mind. I had to act like she never existed. That is precisely what I have done the past five years. I acted as if I am a ghost.

And what did I get for my efforts?

Another man who wanted to use and abuse me. The gleam in Lee’s eyes when he told me I was safe was one I had seen many times before. It was the same glimmer my daddy’s eyes got before he punished me. Even his slimy grin was identical. If it weren’t for Dexter, he would have hurt me—possibly in a way I’ve never been touched. That notion alone had me spinning on my feet to ensure Dexter escaped the fiery depths of hell with me.

A few minutes later, a harrowing moan grumbles from Dexter’s mouth. With nearly all of his body weight on my shoulders, I assumed he had passed out.

“Right.” He grunts his one word as if it is an entire sentence, the nudge of his head strengthening his demand.

I take a sharp right, veering away from the streetlights peeking over the horizon and the sirens howling in the distance. I drop my eyes to Dexter’s, seeking further instructions. Pain fetters his face, but only for a short amount of time—in and out in under a second. He doesn’t want to add to the panic misting my skin more effectively than the big drops of moisture falling from the sky.

“In approximately two miles, there’s a cabin. There are clues in the grass to help you find it. It’s hidden by shrubs.” His deep voice is garbled with pain. “They won’t find us there. We can bunker down for a few days.”

We? — I like the sound of that. I was scared to death about entering the bush alone. It wasn’t the men chasing me who caused my throat-pounding response; it was the bats hovering above my head and the occasional scrape across my ankles not caused by fallen tree limbs.

“Can you see the marks? They look like bear prints,” Dexter asks, his words barely audible.

My feet skid to a stop as I scan the area. Upon hearing my thrashing heart raging in the silence of the night, Dexter chuckles, “They aren’t real bear prints. Just made up ones. My father leaves them as clues so he can find his way home.”

I’m glad he can find humor in our situation. I cannot. When I drop my eyes to my shoes, nothing but sludge and mud reflect back at me. I can barely see the ground, much less old marks that have most likely faded with time.

“Trust me, Claudia,” Dexter stammers, reading my thoughts with an edge a stranger shouldn’t have. “There is a cabin here somewhere. You’ve just got to follow the clues.”

Panic rises up my chest when his head flops forward. Within a mere second, his arm clamped around my shoulders triples in weight. I scream his name on repeat inside my head, but he doesn’t wake up. He is passed out, quite possibly dead. It is too dangerous for us to wait here until he regains consciousness, and if he’s wrong about the bear prints being fake, we are a sitting target. We have to keep moving, I just don’t know how.

Recalling my daily routine of scaling the stairs of my family home with my drunk dad on my back, I tighten Dexter’s grip around my shoulders before hoisting him off the ground. My knees wobble under the excessive weight, but with my lower back bearing most of the pain, I manage to take a laborious step forward.

Because Dexter is taller than me, his feet drag across the mud with every painstaking step. In a way, it’s a godsend. It hides my footprints from anyone seeking them. Any evidence he fails to remove, I’m sure the rain will take care of.

Approximately two hours later, my slug-like steps come to a stop. There is a cabin standing roughly twelve feet in front of me, canopied by creeping weeds and overgrown grass as Dexter said. I’m wary to approach. It appears empty, but three shingles on the rickety awning have been newly repaired, announcing someone was here more recently than the unkempt appearance alludes.

“Ugh.” I nudge Dexter with my shoulder, hoping my grunt and bump routine will wake him.

It doesn’t. He continues drooling on my neck, the flutters of his breath in the blood pooled in the corner of his mouth the only indication he’s alive.

“Oomph,” I try again.

He remains as quiet as I’ve been the past five years.

Confident my trembling legs are two seconds away from collapsing, I pace toward the dark cabin. My steps are soundless; only the crunch of dried leaves is audible. The closer I approach the wooden cabin, the wider my eyes grow. It is one of those properties you’d expect in a horror flick. It is dingy and dark and reminds me of my childhood home.

My family estate wasn’t always derelict and run down. Before my mother passed, it was a beautiful country manor. I tried to keep the property to her level of cleanliness after her death, but no amount of scrubbing could mask the scent of her corpse. I tried. It just wasn’t possible.

When I take the first stair on the warped patio, it creaks under our combined weight. My eyes rocket to the door, hoping the massive screech hasn’t announced our arrival. The last thing I want to do is startle a man with a gun. We had unexpected visitors arrive on our property all the time when my mom disappeared. They had big books filled with tiny little words and pointy, screwed-up noses. They stopped coming after my dad greeted them with a shotgun slung over his shoulder.

We never had any visitors after that.

When the creak fails to result in any lights coming on, I make my way to the only door in the entire property. It’s not surprising there is only one exit and entry point. The space is so small, it is only half the size of the living room in my family home.

I hiss and moan as we enter the dark space. I sound like an alley cat in the midst of a brawl, but if it saves me from being shot, I’m all for it. The room is very basic. There is a box under a dusty window on my right, a double mattress to my left, and a stack of old pallets being used as a pantry. I think there may be a bathroom hidden behind the back wall, but with half-casted moonlight my only source of light, I’m not willing to advance any closer.

Confident the only living thing inside the cabin is mold and mildew, I head for the double bed shoved in the far left-hand corner of the poorly lit space. Dexter releases a long, simpering moan when I place him on the bed. The reason for his pained groan comes to light when he rolls onto his stomach. The back of his shirt is bright red. The blood seeping from a circular wound is flowing at a frantic rate. I must act quickly or he will bleed out.

Although Dexter’s eyes are snapped shut, I wordlessly advise him I’ll be back in a minute. I know he can hear me. We’ve communicated many times the past six weeks. Brief glances, furled lips, and the occasional slip of a note not only kept me out of harm’s way, but piqued my curiosity. That is why I arrived at Dexter’s room tonight. My inquisitiveness got the better of me. Although I would have preferred our night not be filled with violence, my heart has never raced so fast. The adrenaline rush you get from rule-breaking is addictive—nearly as enticing as the moan that left Bryce’s lips when I struck him with the shovel.

I gag, scream and nearly give up on my endeavor three times before I gather all the instruments needed to fix Dexter’s wound. I don’t know who owns this cabin, but they should be ashamed of themselves. The moldy sandwich in the sink is swarming with bugs, and the mirror above the vanity is smeared with so much dust, I thought I was a ghost. There is only one time a home should be this messy: when you’re hiding the scent of a decaying corpse.

With half a bottle of whiskey, a sewing kit, and a sturdy length of thread I plucked from the hem of Dexter’s shirt, I exhale a deep breath then sit on a tiny stool next to the bed. I’m not a doctor, but I had ample experience mending broken bones and cracked faces during my childhood. My mom was just as brave as Dexter is being now. Not once did she cry when she was crippled with pain. Some days, her legs didn’t work, yet she still packed my school lunch every single day. I really miss her. More than I should.

Daddy said she is the reason I am sick, that the bug in her head transferred to mine when I grew in her stomach. I thought she was perfect. Her moods fluctuated a lot, but that’s what made her so much fun. There were days when she sang songs at the top of her lungs while painting my room with bright yellow sunflowers. Then other days she’d make the bathwater so hot, my skin bubbled with blisters. She was different, but she was my mom, so I loved her all the same.

Apology after apology rolls through my head when I pry Dexter’s shirt away from his wound. The drenched material comes away without too much force, but discovering the cause for the frantic flow of blood makes me gasp. Dexter has been shot, but there is no exit wound. That can only mean one thing: the bullet is still lodged in his back.

I smack my forehead four times, shutting up the stupid thoughts streaming through my mind. I can’t dig the bullet out. I just can’t. I don’t like blood. It is pretty and bright, but it generally accompanies death. I don’t want Dexter to die. That is why I carried him on my back for over two hours.

If you don’t remove the bullet, he will die!

My palm bangs my forehead until it is red and raw. I hate listening to the voices in my head, but this time, I don’t have a choice. She is right. If I don’t remove the bullet, Dexter will bleed out. It isn’t a matter of if; it is a matter of when. It could be an hour; it could be minutes. I haven’t watched enough crime shows to gauge a better timeframe.

Before I lose the courage, I plunge two fingers into Dexter’s wound. I freeze, surprised. My body didn’t respond how I anticipated. I thought I would gag, or, at the very least, squeal in disgust, but the stark coolness of his blood is too shocking.

Is this normal? Should he be this cold?

Ignoring Dexter’s groans from my fingers digging around in his wound, I continue to hunt for the bullet. I pretend I am seeking the shards of glass my mom hid in my dad’s porridge. It is like a treasure hunt, just more gory and tainted with the smell of death.

The gagging I expected earlier comes full force when my fingers curl around something cooler than Dexter’s blood. Its smooth surface leaves no doubt of its identity. It is a soul-stealing bullet.

My hands are tiny, but there is no way I can remove them along with the bullet and not rip Dexter’s wound. I have to hurt him to save him—just like my dad did for my mom.

I grunt in apology when Dexter’s painful moan coincides with his eyes rolling into the back of his head. The wound didn’t tear too much. He’ll only need a few more stitches, but his moan speaks to the torrent of pain raining down on him. After dumping the blood-smeared bullet onto the bedside table, I secure the bottle of whiskey in my hands. It is supposed to remove germs from the wound before I sew the hole shut, but my hands are shaking so badly, I take three giant swigs before pouring the remnants over the singed hole.

Dexter roars as violently as my throat burns from the amber liquid sliding into my gut. He thrashes against the mattress, his battle cries the loudest I’ve heard. Panicked his screams will alert people to our whereabouts, I muffle his mouth with my hand. I am shaking so profoundly, I can feel the rattle of my hand all the way up my arm. But my shaking has nothing on the frenetic quivers wreaking havoc with Dexter’s body. He is shuddering as if he is surrounded by six inches of snow.

Once Dexter’s groans simmer to a purr, I remove my hand from his mouth. I don’t want to get back to the next stage of my operation, but I don’t have a choice.

Last part, then you’re done, I say in my head, working up the courage to pierce a threaded needle through Dexter’s angry, red skin.

Mercifully, Dexter handles the sting of the needle much better than the burn of alcohol. He lies perfectly still as I stitch his wound in the same pattern my daddy taught me when we sealed my mother’s eyes shut. He is so motionless, I worry I clamped his mouth too long. If it weren’t for the goosebumps prickling his skin, I’d check for a pulse. Your skin doesn’t show signs of being cold when you’re dead. It goes blue and smelly. Sometimes it even slides away from the bones it’s covering.

My shoulders straighten when I finalize the last stitch. My medical skills are rusty, but the thick, white thread that contrasts with Dexter’s olive skin has successfully closed his wound.

Now you need to work on his plummeting body temp.

After sending a warning to my head to be quiet, I sling my eyes to the right before shifting them to the left. The owner of this cabin must be a daytime-only visitor because there aren’t any blankets or clothing in sight.

When I stand to inspect the cabin more thoroughly, my dress clings to my skin. Dexter isn’t the only one saturated head to toe. My hair is stuck to my shivering back, and my dress is so drenched, even my panties are soaked through.

While rubbing the goosebumps on my arms, I circle the old wooden floors. The creak of the warped material matches the squeaks of the mattress springs from Dexter’s violent shudders as he works through the pain, but my thorough search comes up empty-handed. I am no closer to discovering a way to increase Dexter’s body temperature.

You could. . .

No! I shout at the voice inside my head.

My daddy said getting into a bed with a man without my clothes on would send me to hell. I don’t want to go to hell—my dad will most likely be there waiting for me. I was only freed from his madness because my love for Nick triumphed over the love I had for my father. If it didn’t, I’d still be walking amongst the flames. I didn’t want to kill my father, but I had no choice. He told me I had to choose between Nick or him. I picked Nick. I’ve never regretted my decision.

No! I internally warn again, hating the whiny voice in my head cautioning me that Dexter will die if I don’t do what she is suggesting. I don’t want him to die, but there must be another way I can save him that doesn’t involve removing my clothes.

Ignoring the other voices in my head calling me names, I pace to the window box on the opposite side of the room. Perhaps if I put some distance between Dexter and me, the crazy thoughts will stop, and clarity will form in its place.

I should let him die. Dexter isn’t like Nick. He’s evil. He’s bad. He doesn’t love me with every fiber of his being. He was just using me as a means to escape. Wasn’t he?

You’re so stupid!

No, I’m not! I pound my head, teaching the snarky voice a lesson about what happens when you’re mean to me. The rattle of my brain against my skull shuts them up right away.

I’m not stupid. I am merely confused by Dexter’s attention. He brings out my reckless side, the side not worried about the wicked thoughts in my head. The evil in his eyes encourages my evil to flourish. We are similar, yet different, if that makes any sense?

Although my life would be less complicated without him in it, I can’t help but be drawn to him. It isn’t just his wild spirit. It is something much deeper than that. For years, I thought my heart was broken. It still ticked, but its beat was slow and out of time. Dexter reset it.

Imagine you’re looking at a heart monitor. See the flat, bland line? That was my heart two months ago. Now imagine a massive surge of electricity jolting through my chest. The flat line spikes up high on the graph before it returns to a standard, rhythmic beat. Dexter is the surge. Nick is the normality.

I return my eyes to Dexter, grateful for the surge but frightened by what it means. He is still shuddering. The purple bruise around his wound is barely distinguishable since his olive skin is pale and blue.

Stop it! I shout at the voices in my head, my demand accompanied by ripping out several chunks of my hair. I’m sick to death of the stupid things they say every single day.

Do this.

Do that.

That puppy would look better without its tail.

Nick will never forgive me if I sleep with another man. For that alone, I can’t listen to them.

Wanting to silence their snarky comments, I slide a pill bottle out of the pocket in my dress. These tablets are the ones the doctors prescribed after I informed my teacher my father had killed my mother. He told everyone I was sick. That what I saw wasn’t true. I thought it was, but within a few months of taking these pills, I began to wonder if I was mistaken.

Maybe my dad didn’t stab my mom twelve times until her pale blue dress turned into a sea of red. Maybe he didn’t leave her sleeping in their bed for six months until the smell of her decaying body became so unbearable he had no choice but to bury her. I was certain he hid her in our barn because he didn’t want anyone to know he had killed her, but maybe I was wrong. These tablets do make me confused. They make me doubt everything and everyone. But at least they numb the pain.

I tap three tablets into my palm. The voices in my head will never be fully silenced, but my prescription calms me down so much, I barely hear them. It is a double-edged sword. If I don’t take them, the pain in my heart won’t stop. If I do take them, my daddy was right: I am a Grade A lunatic.

I should take them. The memories surfacing in my head are more violent than usual. I’m not surprised. The blood streaming from Dexter’s wound matches the stain I scrubbed from my parents’ mattress the day after my mother was buried. His painful screams when I poured the whiskey over his wound were as vocal as my mom’s before my dad silenced her cries with his blade. I hate feeling confused, but the pain in my chest is too intense to ignore. I have no choice. I can either be medicated or believe my father murdered my mother as callously as I killed Bryce.

Preferring to pretend neither of those events transpired, I raise my hand to my mouth. Here it comes—a blackness so dense, it doesn’t just numb my thoughts, it freezes my heart as well.