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Finally, I feel something. A whole lot of something.

My sailing fist slams the door open. “What the fucking fuck!” I yell. “Get off her!”

Chastain jerks back, sliding off the bed and whirling around. His glasses are askew, his hair in disarray.

Motherfucker.

I hate him.

Totally. Irrevocably.

My palms slam into his chest before I’m even aware of crossing the room. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I scream at him.

He glances back at Kinsey, who’s looking groggily around the room. She seems really out of it. Glazed eyes. Bedraggled hair and rumpled, barely there pajamas.

“Did you drug her?” I screech, shoving him roughly. It doesn’t matter that he’s a wall of solid muscle and barely moves. “You’re scum! A fucking monster!”

“Amelia,” he snaps, cheekbones flushing with anger. “Return to your cabin. Now.”

Hysterical laughter bubbles in my throat. “Are you nuts? There’s no way I’m leaving you with her!”

“Amelia, it’s all right,” says a woman behind me.

Turning, I see Nurse Nora standing near the kitchen, a clipboard in her arms and an anxious look on her face.

Adrenaline drains away in a rush, leaving me shaky and cold. “What the hell is happening here?” I ask her.

Kinsey moans, her head thrashing from side to side. Out of the corner of my eye I see Chastain move back to the bed.

“Night terrors,” answers Nora gently. “We’ve been monitoring her sleep since she arrived.”

My head shakes automatically. “What? No. Someone would have heard something. Woken up. Nix never said…” I trail off, feeling more than a few cards short of a deck.

Nora clears her throat daintily, glancing at Chastain. Without looking up, he nods brusquely.

Nora says, “The cabins are soundproofed but wired for sound in case of situations like these. Some of the most profound therapy happens during these hours. Kinsey’s progress over the past months has been extraordinary.”

Dots connect into lines in my head. “The only reason I heard something was because the door was open.”

Nora turns scarlet. “My fault.”

My gaze veers to the bed, to Kinsey’s blankly staring eyes and tortured expression. “She isn’t awake?”

“No,” answers Chastain in a clipped tone. Icy eyes meet mine; beneath the ice, though, there’s a firestorm. “Are you satisfied? If so, please leave.”

Shame curls through me, shadowed by a strange sense of loss.

I accused him of rape.

“I… I?—”

“Don’t bother apologizing,” he says coldly. “Go.”

I go.

I dream of the day I died. Or rather, the day I wish I’d died.

The sky is a pale, washed-out blue typical of Los Angeles. The air is warm and heavy, smelling of smog and wasted lives.