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I can’t make the wordsI don’t hurtcome out of my mouth, so I take the rubber band, emotion clogging my throat as we slip them onto our wrists.

She picks up a roller from the pan. “Anything else you want to use my self-destructive behavior to blackmail me into doing?”

I snort a laugh but consider the question. When we finish the wall we’re painting, the walls will be done. And, because I’m not a complete sociopath, I’ve hired people for the next steps so I don’t burn the house down or kill myself. It will be expensive, but at this point, I’ll take the financial hit—I’m mentally spent on doing all this work. Electrical, plumbing, kitchen cabinet install, flooring, and trim have all been outsourced. Next comes buying furniture and décor. Other than doing the backsplash for the kitchen—which is weeks away—I need to think of something else for us to dotogether.

She pushes the roller of paint across the wall, her black-encircled eyes looking at me like she’s waiting for some kind of sentencing. The way her long hair hides her face and awful makeup hides her features, it’s like she can’t even be seen. Like she doesn’twantto be seen.

“Yes,” I tell her as I pull out my phone and fire off a text. “Let’s finish the wall, and then there’s someone I want you to meet.”

“You have skin like porcelain straight from China, honey,” Wanda says with a smack of her gum, ample cleavage inches from Wren’s nose as she leans over her, running her fingers through her hair. “And such a thick mane! Like a prize-winning derby horse!”

Wren looks from me to Wanda’s neon fitted shirt, purple leggings, and cheetah heels, to the stainless-steel details of the room. Her stool sits smack dab in the middle of Wanda’s Workshop next to the corpse of a man Wanda had been working on before I texted.

Wanda steps back, as if sizing her up, before putting her hands on her curvy hips. “Who’s your inspo?” she asks.

“Inspo . . . ?” Wren asks.

Wanda pops a shoulder along with a bubble. “You know, who do you look at and think, ‘That girl’s got it goin’ on!’?” She pats her hair sprayed mass of hair. “Mine is Dolly Parton. That woman wears a wig and a set of tits like nobody’s business.” She shimmies, making her owntitsjiggle.

Wren shifts uncomfortably on her stool, eyes down, sleeves of her shirt pinched in her fingers. Despite Wanda’s Wandaness, my heart crumbles.

My childhood was fucked. I hid from a lot and pretended a lot—hell, I still do—but the lengths she’s gone to . . . it’s like every slash I found on her arm was branded into my own skin the second I found them. The visceral way I felt her pain was almost as unexpected as seeing the cuts themselves.

“She likes Lindsey Stirling,” I say.

“Lindsey Stirling . . . ?” Wanda’s eyes squint and she taps her chin, as if trying to imagine such a woman.

Wren shakes her head. “Scotty.”

“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” I tell her gently. “Look at her—Wanda, of all people, is a judgment-free zone. We can look up a pic—”

“No,” Wren says, more sure this time, looking at Wanda. “When I look at Scotty, that’s what I think.”

My mouth opens slightly, and Wanda claps her hands, face lit up like a Christmas tree. Like this is the best news of her day. “Well of course you do, honey. She’s a knockout.”

When Wren’s eyes meet mine, she shrugs, slight smile tugging at her lips. Wanda wraps a cape around Wren’s shoulders then pulls a pair of scissors out of an apron tied around her hips.

In my forty-one years on this earth, it’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. And while my knee-jerk reaction is to laugh and tell her she’s set her standards too low, I stay quiet, tucking the moment into a secret pocket inside me.

Wanda says something to make Wren laugh at the same time she takes the first snip with her scissors.

An hour later, Wren’s hair is cut, her beautiful face visible. Gone is the dark makeup, and in its place a subtle line of brown eyeliner, peach blush, and clear lip gloss. Before I take her home, we stop by the boutique in town. She doesn’t want to part with the combat boots, but she does let me buy her five new sweaters, none of them black.

At her house, she looks at me through the rolled-down passenger window, bags of clothes looped around her arms.

“I have to ask you something.” She takes a sharp inhale, as if she’s about to jump into a frigid pool. “Did Wanda use the same makeup on me as she does on the dead bodies?”

I laugh—loud.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

She smiles, barely recognizable as her blue eyes sparkle just like her dad’s. “Thanks, Scotty.”

It hangs between us until I shift the gear into drive.

“I didn’t do anything.”

It earns an eye roll. “Either way, I’m really glad you said yes to my dad.”