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"What man?" she asks. "Where did you even meet this person?"

"I knew him from before." It isn't really a lie. I did know him from before I was locked up, just…not that long before, and I don't really have any idea who he is. "If you don't want me to bring people to your house, that's fine," I tell them, tears welling in my eyes. "But I amsolonely, I think it might kill me. I miss being touched; I miss being loved. I missthem,and I know I'm not supposed to say that, but I do. And I want this to work, but I don't know how. No one is ever going to hire me, and no one is going to love meeveragain. And I know you guys are trying to love me, but you have to try. How do you think that makes me feel?"

"Teagan, that's ridiculous," my dad says. "Of course we love you. We're doing everything we can to help you—after everything you've done to humiliate us. Stop being selfish."

"You're not listening to me," I say. "Do you have any idea how miserable I am? I can't live like this, or I'm going to hurt myself. If you want me to go, I'll go. But I can't do the curfew. I'm going to go…take my medication and lie down. I'm in pain."

"They didn't love you, either, Teagan," my mom calls after me as I climb the staircase.

"You're not making the point you think you are," I tell her, turning into my bedroom and pulling the door closed behind me.

I crawl under the covers, pop my earbuds into my ears, and listen to "Pretty Poisoned" on the web over and over again.

It occurs to me that no one ever let me mourn. Not for the love I lost, not for the family, not for Brady and Rhett. I certainly wasn't comforted. I was just locked up and told I needed help—that I needed deprogramming to realize that I didn't lose anything at all. And I almost believed it when I thought Luca was dead. I almost believed it when I saw Hazel on TV.

I almost believed it when I thought I'd be able to get a job, wear a dress at my sister's wedding, and slip seamlessly into a life where I wasn't a murderer, and where I'd stop fantasizing about all the ways I could kill someone with only the things in the room and biting my cheeks just to taste blood.

But I can't get a job, I can't wear the dress, and in this life, I'm still a murderer. And I don't even care if that makes me a bad person anymore. I know I'll do it again; just like Declan said, I won't be able to stop. It's the second-best drug I've ever experienced, and I'll never have the very best drug ever again.

But unlike Declan, I don't have anywhere to hide—no mountains, no wealth. I'm going to end up in jail or Bone Saw is going to put me down. Maybe I can convince him to do it nicely.

And worst of all, Luca is alive, but he can't and won't come for me. There will be no putting my heart back in my chest, no getting away with our crimes. No foreign beaches, no secrets.

The road to ruined really is paved with good intentions. That's certainly what I am now.

I don't move for three days.

SEVEN

"Teagan, you need to get up," my mom says, shaking me. "It's after five. You've barely left your room in days. Have you even showered?"

"I don't think so," I tell her. "I don't remember."

"You missed your appointment with Dr. Miller," she says.

"I was too tired."

And I don't want to open my eyes. I don't want to see someone in a gold mask watching me. But he's still around; I know that much. I feel it.

"Have you heard anything back on those jobs you applied for?"

"No. Nothing."

"I think you're right, Teagan," she says. "This isn't going to work. We need to do something else."

"Like what?"

"I talked to your Aunt Beth in North Carolina. She has an apartment over her garage that she rents out; she said she'd be willing to rent it to you once the current resident leaves in a few weeks. You could start over there, change your hair, change your name…"

"You've told me not to be myself, that I should be ashamed of my body, and now you're telling me I can't even have my name anymore?"

"I'm just saying it's an option—you should think about it. And I think youshouldget out more, so don't worry about the curfew. Your sister invited you to her bachelorette party this weekend, and that man sent you flowers. They're downstairs."

"What man?"

"Whatever man you've been seeing. There was no note. Does he have a name?"

I scoff. "No, he doesn't have a name. And that man would not send me flowers."