I’ve been surrounded by my family since two o’clock in the morning, but that wasn’t a bad thing. I felt safe. Protected. No one could get to me. Now, I’m home, and I’m alone. I’m in bed, but I’m not sure I want to be here. I’m exhausted, but I can’t close my eyes without thinking of Thomas looming over me. The memories are tangled in my brain: the reverence in his voice when he called me brave, superimposed by the dark, intense eyes that bored into mine while his hands wrapped around my throat. It takes hours—and some drugs—for sleep to find me. One moment, I’m curled up under my quilt, watching the afternoon sun trace shadows on my wall, and the next, I’m dreaming. I’m not in my bed this time. I’m in Lilly Mauta’s. I’ve never been to her house, and it’s been years since she died, but the proof is everywhere.
