I don’t go down for dinner. Instead, I take my sleeping aid cocktail, and I don’t dream, either. When I wake up, sunlight sears through the drapes with a vengeance.

I get dressed in a shirt and a pair of jeans. As I drag the waistband over my hips, I wince. Rather than fixate on why, I grab my diary and head downstairs.

It’s a brand-new day.

“Maryanne?” Elaine sticks her head into the hall from the living room as I descend the bottom step. She’s wearing gray. A dress that doesn’t swish when she walks but remains stiff, with a hem reaching just above her knees. Her hair is slicked back, her makeup minimal. Pale skin enhances the redness in her eyes.

But even still. She wears her trademark smile.

“Can we talk?” she asks.

My first thought is that she knows. Old Thorny came clean about his naughty behavior. Then they reconciled, even about the mysterious friend luring her away on business trips. Together, they reached the obvious conclusion as to the catalyst for all their problems: me.

They fought, but eventually, Elaine decided it would be best if I left.

Though, in that case, Thorny would be the one to gloat…

Curious, I follow Elaine into the living room and spot the suitcase leaning against the couch. Hers not mine.

“I…I’ve decided to go away on my business trip a little early. I’ll be back before your birthday though.” She lifts her lips, baring her pearly white teeth. Then she sighs, letting the expression fall. “Can I have a hug before I go?”

A hug. Two arms extended. Closeness maintained for exactly five seconds. Supposedly, they make people feel something. Safe? Loved?

Or, in Elaine’s case, less guilt. I don’t think it works. She draws back, turning away from me.

“I’ll leave my number,” she says. “Call me if anything—”

“You mean…I’m staying?”

Of course not. I wait for her to say as much, doing Thorny’s dirty work for him. The lawyer will be here in an hour. I’m sorry, Maryanne.

“Y-yes.” Elaine blinks. “It’s just for a few weeks. James… He’ll look after you.” She stoops for the handle of her suitcase and starts for the door. Before opening it, she looks back, hunting for a figure who doesn’t appear to send her off. “Goodbye…”

I watch her leave, but it isn’t until the door slams shut that it sinks in.

Mommy left the nest, leaving me alone with Daddy.

Leaving me alone.

A surreal feeling washes over me. This hazy, sleepy sensation like I’m not really awake. This isn’t really happening. I felt it only a handful of times before.

The first time I woke up in a hospital to some stern-faced psychiatrist informing me I’d tried to kill myself.

Before that. At the funeral all those years ago, maybe in this very spot, when everything inside me came to a boiling point and all I could do was scream.

Oh. And that one time I wandered into a closet and found my father hanging from a necktie.

Those times felt a lot like this.

“It’s called dissociating,” one of my many therapists explained. “Whenever you feel that way, try to resist it. Ground yourself, Maryanne.”

Apparently, dissociating can make one impulsive.

It doesn’t really hit home until I enter the entryway, hearing my footsteps echo. From a distance, I catch the sound of a car driving away. Just for a few weeks, she said. But her eyes told differently.

All isn’t what it seemed in paradise.

Someone broke the rules.

Was it him?

I march into their bedroom as if the furniture might talk and give me an answer. The bed is still made. A stale scent taints the air. They haven’t slept in here in days.

The door to the balcony is open. Thorny glowers at the skyline, drinking wine straight from the bottle. The harder the wind blows off the ocean, the more he drinks. Sip. Sip. Sip. The liquid dribbles shamelessly down his chin. It’s barely nine in the morning but, as the sun struggles to climb to its midmorning perch, he continues to drink.

And read. There’s something clutched in his other hand. A tiny, red book opened to the first page.

“You think this—” He cocks his head in my direction, his eyes bloodshot, his smile crooked. He lifts my journal and gives it a shake, making the pages strain against the breeze. “You think this will work?” he wonders. “Framing me as some kind of pervert? Nice try.”

He sets the wine bottle down and rips my page clean from the book. After balling it in a fist, he feeds it to the wind, letting it carry the white ball over into a field.

“But not good enough. If you’re going to use my name, you might as well put some fucking flair into it. Here.” He whips the book at me and I barely manage to catch it. Stinging fingers clutch it to my chest. “Get a pen. No, wait.” He snatches a black one from his pocket and throws it to me as well. “He lifted my skirt,” he parrots, “Told me not to tell. No one would believe that. Describe it. Now.” He jerks his chin to a lounger positioned to face the view. “Sit.”

Nerves go haywire beneath my skin. He’s a different Thorny altogether today. Someone I don’t recognize, with a mangy five-o’clock shadow and unkempt hair. He reeks of wine and is wearing the same clothes from the other day, but his suit jacket is unbuttoned to reveal the shirt underneath. It’s wrinkled.

“I told you to sit.”

He advances a step and my knees contort, pitching me onto the lounger.

“Write,” he snaps. “But not in pathetic little sentences. Describe it. How I touched you. What you felt.” He laughs as my cheeks catch fire, unbearably hot. “You can’t, can you? You want to play the little girl who cried molestation, but you can’t even describe what it fucking feels like.” He shakes his head and snatches up the wine bottle, taking a sip right from the rim. “And this is the same girl who what? Got kicked out of boarding school for fucking some kid in the principal’s office?”

He throws the bottle so hard that it ricochets off the siding of the house but doesn’t break. It rolls across the balcony instead and slips between gaps in the railing. A second later, there’s a smash.

“Jane couldn’t make it today,” Thorny tells me as he lumbers into the bedroom. “So consider that your fucking assignment. Make up a lie worthy of being told.”

He slams the door after him. In fact, I think he locks it, trapping me on the balcony. The same way my mother used to lock me out of her room when she grew bored of me.

It’s what adults do.

Barricade themselves against annoying things.

Ignore them.

Then leave them behind.

He touched me, even though I told him to stop. He could feel me shiver. I know he could. His fingers sank into the pleats of my skirt anyway, winding up the fabric despite how I flinched.

Uncles aren’t supposed to be like this. They shouldn’t breathe heavily against your ear as they ram their hands against your thigh. They shouldn’t linger there, letting their heat sink through your—

No. I break off, slashing through the entire sentence. Gritting my teeth, I try again. Tell a lie worth telling. How did I feel, preyed upon by my big, scary uncle Thorny?

Well, like a psychopath.

You’re a liar, he told me. No one will believe it, even if I—

Ugh! I tear the page out and rip it into thirds. Fourths. Slivers. Confetti. I watch as the white dots sprinkle the wood at my feet, dancing in the wind. Within seconds, they’re in every which direction and there’s no way to ever put them back together again.

Screw Thorny. He thinks he has the upper hand. Maybe he does. But hands are made for slapping—and I know firsthand what it feels like to do so. When the flat of your palm strikes flesh, the blow hurts you just as much as it does them. You merely pretend not to show it.

It’s all a part of the game.

He wants me to be convincing. But to whom? One naughty word in his headmaster’s ear and Thorny’s job is forfeit. I tell myself that over and over as I watch the door, daring myself to see if he really did leave it unlocked. So what if he didn’t?

I could climb down from here, even if he did sink so low. In fact, I will. I’m not afraid. Upon standing, I approach the railing and survey the lower level. It’s the same layout as this one, just larger. There are loungers perfect for landing on if I lower myself far enough.

Setting my sights on the nearest one, I throw my journal onto it. Then I climb over the railing, dangling my legs above the lounge chair.

Piece of cake.

Inhaling raggedly, I close my eyes and prepare to jump. I should count to ten or something. One. Two…

My fingers slip. Gravity grabs me by the ankles, yanking hard. Bang! I hear the thud before I feel the pain. Blinding. Splitting.

Black.

The sun is spitting in my eyes when I finally peel them open. Taunting me. I start to roll onto my side but wind up staring at my arm. My hands.

They’re painted red. Merry Christmas. It’s mistletoe red. On my skirt. The wood of the deck. Dripping down my nose, onto my tongue. It has a taste: yummy salty flavor. Uh-oh. My fingers fly to my forehead as if knowing something I don’t.

Ow. Pain, pain, pain no matter where I touch.

“Maryanne!”

Thudding footsteps make me look up. Thorny’s racing toward me, stopping short when he sees my face.

His eyes go bug-wide, his mouth dropping open. “What the hell…” Something makes him pause, an eyebrow raised. Then the alarm disappears, and he scoffs. “I see you improved the makeup this time.”

Makeup? Bright, cherry-red makeup, pooling in puddles as I try to stand. The sun starts stabbing me, making me wince as the house becomes a tilt-a-whirl, rocking left to right.

“I preferred the bruises,” Thorny adds, staring down at me from his Romanesque nose. “They looked way more realistic.”

More realistic than what? My stomach churns, telling me I don’t want to know.

“Elaine’s not here to fall for your game, you do realize.”

Oh. I stop moving. He thinks I’m faking, staging another dramatic scene.

“At least you came running,” I point out. But my voice sounds funny. My tongue feels heavy, and fear conjures up a million potential reasons why.

I need to see a mirror. My limbs rush to propel me upright, but everything moves out of sync. I have to brace my hand flat against the floor. Flatter. Try to stand. Too fast. Sit down. Try again.

“Very convincing,” Thorny exclaims, clapping. “When you’re done, I’ll be in the study.”

He marches off, huffing and puffing. Good. That means I can crawl into the living room alone. Only the room elongates with every inch I gain, stretching. Transforming. It’s an endless hall that takes an eternity to pass.

The stairs are ten times taller than they should be. I try to climb the first one, but my hands miss. I’m on my knees again.

“Maryanne?” He sounds different now.

Something nudges my shoulder. At least I think…

I’m too tired. “I need to go upstairs,” I say—to my legs, not to him. Move. Get up. “I need to move.”

“Maryanne?” Warm fingers sink through my hair and come away dripping scarlet. “Shit.”

He looks worried now, Old Thorny. It transforms him once again into someone else—but I’ve met this man before. A long, long time ago when my entire world was upended.

He bundled me in his arms like he does now, holding me tight.

“It’ll be okay,” he told me then. “I’m here. Do you hear me? I’m here.”

And I believed him once…

Never twice.