I wake up too early. There’s a bad dream in my head, chasing me into the hallway. I have to run to escape it, right into a bedroom, its closet doors left wide open.

But this one is dark. Empty.

The only other occupant of the house lurks outside it, brooding on the balcony below. He’s staring into a wine bottle as moonlight reflects off the waves in the distance. As I tiptoe closer, he looks up, spotting me.

This is a dream. Therefore, it’s okay for my stomach to dip as I grasp the banister. He observes me with more interest than he ever would in reality, swiping his thumb along his jaw to whisk wine away. Anticipation builds as curiosity lingers in his irises. He’ll ask me something, I think. One of those dangerous questions only he can pose.

But… Like always, he turns away and ignores me instead.

I bet he’s thinking up a new plot idea. Something cerebral and enthralling, involving a cheating wife and a single father with a mean, rebellious daughter. Sometimes they pretend to be happy families. Sometimes not.

And, in the end, everyone dies.

I copy him, thinking hard. What layer might I add to my own sordid fairytale?

“Thorny?” Oops. I break the spell, calling down to him directly.

He shrugs, but I don’t expect him to respond—not really. I think I imagine the gruff words riding a gust of wind.

“What do you want?”

“Your book. Wasteland—”

His shoulders stiffen at the title of his debut novel. From shock? I can’t tell.

Swallowing hard, I add, “Why did the woman fake her own death?”

A rather anticlimactic ending, if I do say so myself. The detective hero spent years chasing the murdered heiress only to find her living quietly as someone else.

“You read it?” Thorny looks at me sharply.

My shoulders lift in a shrug. “Ages ago.”

A lie. There’s a dogeared copy hidden at the very bottom of my suitcase. One of many paperbacks with his name stamped on them. For research purposes and nothing more. How can I get under his skin without getting inside his head first?

My uncle Thorny has a devious, dark mind.

“Because.” He stares back at the water, his reply so soft that I have to strain my ears to catch it. “She wanted to know what it felt like.”

“To what?” I wonder, leaning against the railing, so close to slipping off again.

“To disappear.” Something he does now, darting beneath the balcony and out of my reach.

The next morning, Thorny is waiting for me in the study. The air feels different the moment I enter the room. Close and still, like we’re sharing every inhaled breath. He doesn’t look at me—not yet. Still, I feel his attention seep into every little pore.

“Morning,” he says in a tone dripping with nonchalance.

“No Jane?” I question after licking my dry lips.

“Not today…” He looks up from a pile of paperwork, eyeing me strangely.

My fingers twitch, aching to cover my cheek, but I stop myself. I took the bandages off, letting my wounds air out in the bright, happy sunshine.

“It doesn’t look too bad,” he says finally. “Maybe you won’t scar too badly after all.”

My eyes bulge. Was that a compliment?

“Your lessons will resume tomorrow,” he adds, returning his attention to his documents. “You can continue with whatever work she left.”

I sit at the table and open my journal. Like a dutiful student, I jot down a few lines. Then I pause.

Thorny remains in the corner, steadily working away.

Odd.

We’re in the same room. Doesn’t he realize?

I listen to the scratch, scratch of his pen as it crawls across the page. Tentatively, I copy the motion with a few scribbles of my own.

I caught him watching me last night. In the dark when he thought I wasn’t looking. I shouldn’t have worn that nightgown, the old one that’s far too thin. You can see my nipples through it.

Did he?

I look up, glancing at Thorny. Then I scratch out the last few lines and try again.

Last night, I wore my thinnest nightgown, telling myself he wouldn’t stare. It’s wrong. He’s my uncle. Even if it’s thin enough to see through.

He’d look away…

“Let’s see it.” Thorny shoves his work aside and holds out his hand expectantly.

“Huh?” I blink, batting my eyelashes. “See what?” My fingers flutter over my words, shielding them from view.

“Don’t tell me you’re suddenly shy.” He stands and four quick strides bring him to me. When he extends his hand again, I have no choice but to surrender the journal. “Not bad,” he declares after reading the first few lines. “Decent word choice.”

“R-really?” My stomach clenches as he continues to read.

“Yes. Your phrasing has improved. But…what are the stakes?” He shrugs and slams my book shut. “What is at risk if your lecherous uncle crosses the line?”

He leans in. Way too close. My nostrils flare to inhale him, and I wiggle against the back of my seat, trapped by wood and leather.

“Dig deeper, Maryanne,” he scolds, tsking between his teeth. “Make me feel the risk.”

He picks up my pen and hands it to me. So I try again.

He’s married, I write. My hand stills as he circles the table and reads from over my shoulder.

“Keep going,” he commands.

He’s married, I scrawl obediently. And Elaine loves him so, so much. If she saw the way he looked at me, she’d—

“Enough.” His expression clouds over and darkens as he steps back.

Oops. We’re not playing anymore. I bent the rules too far, and he’s packing up his toys, leaving the room.

“W-wait,” I say, even though he’s already in the living room, sliding the glass doors to the balcony open. “I didn’t mean it.”

But it’s too late. Second chances are for good girls.

He avoids me for the rest of the day, exiting whatever room I enter or lingering on the balcony. The only way to watch him is to sneak glimpses from the master bedroom, crouched on all fours, just beyond his line of sight.

A wild Thorny in his natural habitat is a strange creature to behold. He takes a drink. Sighs. Takes another drink. His eyes scan the water ruthlessly, and I remember something Elaine said: “He hates going down to the beach.” Except, of course, in the early morning hours after his wife left him.

Can wise, old Thorny not swim? No. I bet there’s more to it than that. Something complicated, befitting a man with such a creative mind.

I bet he hates sand. It’s unruly, unable to be tamed. Like a wayward teenage psychopath, it gets into places it shouldn’t, chafing against the desired order.

Yeah. That’s it. How fucking pretentious.

I watch him until the sunlight fades and he returns inside, his bottle empty. Through the floor, I sense the sliding glass door slam shut.

“Maryanne!”

“Coming!” I scoot back into the master bedroom, taking care not to leave a clue I was ever there. When I race down the stairs, he’s in the dining room. There are four sandwiches this time.

“Eat,” he grunts, biting into his first one.

I linger near the edge of the table, flicking imaginary crumbs off its surface. He’s halfway through his second sandwich when I finally gather up the nerve to speak.

“What does it feel like to write?”

He spends hours avoiding it. It must be fun.

“What?” He eyes me above his mound of bread. “Are you serious?”

“Maybe.” I pick a seat and claim a sandwich. My nostrils flare, catching his scent. Oopsies. I’m two chairs closer than before. “So what does it feel like? Playing make-believe and getting paid. Didn’t your mommy ever encourage you to get a real job?”

The fact that he does have one is beside the point.

“Tell me what it’s like to tell lies for a living,” I dare him.

“It’s fulfilling,” he says. “Something you wouldn’t understand.”

“Because I’m so ‘crazy’?” I make air quotes.

He laughs, and I catch myself staring. It almost sounded real.

“No,” he says, remembering his customary scowl. “Because it requires putting yourself in someone else’s point of view and thinking from a different angle. It requires a lack of selfishness.”

“Oh.” I poke my sandwich with my thumb. “So tell me, if I were to put myself in the shoes of, say, a middle-aged man in a perfect marriage, why might my wife want to leave me?”

“Fucking hell…” He jolts upright, knocking his wine glass over. The dark liquid spreads across the table, dripping onto my lap. There goes my favorite skirt.

“Don’t,” I blurt when he heads for the door. But my mouth wrinkles. Sarcasm should be delivered guilt-free. Maybe I wasn’t using it that time. “I…I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Oh.” He releases an exaggerated sigh and rocks back onto his heels. “And how did you fucking mean it?”

“I… No one’s ever loved me.” I make it sound so matter-of-fact. Common knowledge. “I’m curious. Researching and all.”

He scoffs, shooting me a disgusted glance. “Is that what you go around saying to justify your behavior?”

“Put yourself in my shoes.” I tap my fingers against the table. It’s story time, but I’m nowhere near as good at it as he is. “You are a seventeen-year-old girl dumped from boarding school to boarding school. Your own family wants nothing to do with you—”

“And whose fault is that?” His voice rises.

Mine grows softer, though I’m not sure why. “So you get sent to live with your aunt and uncle who pretend to have the world’s best marriage. But it’s a lie.”

“Everything is a joke to you, isn’t it?” He fumes, radiating tension. For whatever reason, though, he doesn’t leave. No. He shoves a chair away from the table and perches on the end of it. Both hands clasped, he faces me coldly. Class is now in session. “If I were that girl, maybe I’d stop to wonder just what about me makes people—”

“Hate?” I say, venturing a guess like a good student.

He grits his teeth. “Avoid.”

“Ah.” I nod along. “And if you were that girl and the one person in the world to show you any ounce of kindness when you needed it the most throws you away like garbage. What might you think?”

Oops. It’s the wrong thing to say. Truthful bile, vomited up uncontrollably.

“And what might you think if he picked at you constantly,” I add, weaving my tale as best I can. “And he lived for finding something nefarious—a new vocabulary word, by the way—in every little thing you do, what might you think then?” I lurch to my feet, knocking my chair over in the process. The room is spinning. My face is burning. My eyes are leaking. “If you were that girl, would you know what love is?”

“Maryanne—”

“No! You wouldn’t,” I say, copying his smug, all-knowing tone. “Because every time you showed an ounce of it to anyone they disappear, or hang themselves, or leave!”

I don’t run to my room—I walk quickly. He didn’t get to me. No. I’m fine. It’s all an act—everything I do, think, and feel is an act. I’m not entitled to portray real emotions.

I’m too damn manipulative.

“Maryanne!”

He sounds closer than he should be. When I turn to slam the door, he’s behind it, his expression a stranger’s. Wide-eyed. Worried. Concerned?

“Haha,” I call thickly, slumped against the wood. “I got you!”

The doorknob jiggles, but I lock it before it can turn.

“Maryanne…”

“Lala, I can’t hear you!” My hands crush my ears, blocking him out.

He doesn’t stay long. He doesn’t even knock again. One second. Two.

He’s gone.