Page 6

Callum isn’t the only famous person here, and while his presence is a mystery, neither Kinsey Kemper nor Jason Nixon have the luxury of even a sliver of anonymity.

Kinsey is a former teen pop star turned cokehead and viral sex-tape victim. If my limited recollection of trash culture is correct, she’s twenty-six or seven, on her third round of treatment for drug addiction and/or plastic surgery addiction and/or sex addiction.

Reports vary, but align in one respect: Kinsey is a train wreck. A living, breathing stereotype of a good girl gone wrong, with dark roots beneath long platinum hair, perfect fake breasts, unnaturally plump lips, and jaded eyes. If she hadn’t consistently been a bitch to me since I arrived, I might feel sorry for her.

Jason Nixon—who only answers to Nix—is Kinsey’s rehab boy-toy. He’s an indie movie star known for his off-the-wall antics, drug use, and run-ins with the law. His angsty persona is almost as canned as Kinsey’s sex-vixen one. I’m convinced neither one can find their own consciences, much less authentic personalities.

I’m a bit of a hypocrite, but at least I can admit it.

The final two members of our motley crew are Preston Williams and Tiffany Beauchamp. Preston is a wisp of a man, thin in every way from his face to fingers to lips. He has the most incredible eyes I’ve ever seen—an undiluted emerald that catches ambient light as well if not better than the actual gemstone.

My guess is he’s in his early thirties. By his soft, concise voice and inability to maintain eye contact with anyone for more than a second or two, I figure he makes the big bucks from behind a computer screen. When he shares in group sessions, the predominant themes are isolation and depression. That, coupled with his penchant for long sleeves, have led me to the conclusion that he either practices self-harm or tried to commit suicide.

Unlike Kinsey and Nix, Preston plucks a chord of sympathy inside me. I want to bundle him up and carry him around in my armpit to keep him safe.

“You’re heartless.”

The snarled words come from Tiffany Beauchamp, our final misfit. She’s speaking to me, as I’ve just told Preston of my impulse to shelter him.

We’re working on interpersonal relationships today—our moderator, Frank C., asked us to say something nice to another member of the group. It was the only thing I could come up with.

“How is that heartless?” I ask, mystified.

She rolls her eyes and sniffs, her pert, freckled nose upturned in disdain. “If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you.”

Ugh. Such a sanctimonious pain in my ass.

I’m half-convinced Tiffany has multiple personalities; she changes moods more than she changes clothes—which is at least four times a day. No more than eighteen or nineteen, she’s petite and cute, with a smile that lights up a room. Right before she sets it on fire.

I imagine her as the daughter of a senator or a billionaire CEO. A debutante drowning in designer duds and fancy cars. Maybe she got a DUI or wrapped her car around a tree. Or maybe she slept with one of her father’s friends, or stole her mother’s Norcos and accidentally OD’d.

Whatever landed her in this prison for broken people, she’s seriously messed up.

I don’t feel sorry for her—I feel sorry for Dr. Chastain.

“It’s okay,” whispers Preston, those beautiful eyes darting to me and away. “Thanks.”

I nod, shifting. My skin must be itchy from the chlorine I didn’t have time to wash off before group. His gratitude doesn’t bother me. It doesn’t.

Our moderator Frank, who looks like a tenderhearted biker in his sixties, nods approvingly. “Good sharing, Mia. I like how you really owned your emotion.”

I barely stop my eyes from rolling.

“How about you, Kinsey? Can you share something about Mia that you appreciate?”

Here we go.

Kinsey’s dark blue eyes latch onto me. Her mouth moves around for a minute, as if dealing with a bad taste. Finally, she grumbles, “She has long legs.”

“Oh, Jesus,” mutters Callum.

Frank clears his throat. “What about her as a person? Something you appreciate about her personality, or anything else that comes to mind.” After a pause, he adds, “Something complimentary.”

Kinsey picks at the split ends of her bleached hair. “I guess she, um, seems pretty normal. Like, well adjusted.” She looks at me, eyes narrowed and burning. “You’re fucking normal. You don’t belong here.”

I blink, floored.

Seated in the folding chair beside Kinsey, Nix stirs. “Yeah,” he seconds.