When she came to Los Angeles, Jane genuinely believed I was holding someone against their will. And she wasn’t wrong. She just didn’t know why. Rochester never told her that part. He made her believe she was doing the right thing.

Maybe that’s not a good enough excuse. Maybe it would be easier to put this all on Jane. That’s certainly what Rochester wants. But it’s something I finally learned, though it took me years to figure it out: how a girl should never be the one to blame for the lies of men.

The Buick charges across the Golden Gate Bridge, traffic flanking us. I try to pick out the spot where Dracula tossed me into the water, but it’s dark, and everything’s blurring together.

“You shouldn’t have left us last night at the free clinic,” Bee whispers.

“I thought it was the best thing to do.”

“You don’t get to decide what’s best for everyone else, Lucy.”

“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

Bee leans back in the passenger seat, her gaze set on the clouded stars. “What are we going to do when we get there tonight?”

“Whatever we can,” I say, but a heavy silence hangs between us, because we both know that won’t be enough. We can’t just leave Dracula and Rochester in San Francisco. But it’s the same question we’ve been asking ourselves for years: How do you stop someone who won’t die?

Something flickers inside me suddenly. “Bee?”

“Yeah?” She doesn’t look at me.

“After the fire,” I say, swallowing hard, “where did you go? I mean, what did it look like when you died?”

She hesitates, her lips pursed, her shoulders gone rigid. I’ve never asked her this before.

“It’s hard to describe,” she says.

We drive a little ways, off the 101, the shadowy hillsides devouring us, and I figure that’s all Bee’s going to say about it, until she shakes her head.

“One thing’s for sure,” she says, and looks at me now. “I could do without all those hands in the walls.”

I heave up a small laugh. “Me too.”

Of course Bee goes to the same place I do. She and I are more alike than we ever believed. And we never should have kept all these things from each other.

“Even after everything,” I say, “even after all the times I died, Dracula always thought I should be grateful.”

“So did Rochester,” Bee says, her jaw set. “He acted like he did me a favor when he married me. A Creole girl from Spanish Town.”

The trees creep closer, the highway narrowing, as Bee lets out a long sigh.

“He always expected me to be ashamed. To be afraid.” Her eyes glint in the moonlight, a determination settling in her face. “Never again.”