Dean’s voice starts to dissolve, my entire mind shutting down and turning to fog. I keep my eyes on him, his movements wayward and clipped. His mouth is still moving, but I can no longer distinguish his words—everything is murky. Confusing. I think I’m underwater, sinking, drowning, fading away…

I think the ocean has finally found me.

I think I like it here.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I listen to the steady drips from a leaky pipe as I lie sprawled out on the hard floor. My head is resting against the stone wall to my left, my legs splayed out in front of me.

Seventeen minutes and twenty-two seconds.

That’s how much time has gone by since I was desecrated. Used up and tossed to the ground like a piece of trash. I’ve been counting the seconds as they tick by in perfect time with the drips.

“Cora.”

Dean’s voice interweaves with the steady drops, and I blink slow, my gaze fixated on absolutely nothing.

“Cora.”

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I don’t move. I force myself to breathe, just so I can stay alive.

“Talk to me, Corabelle.”

What am I supposed to say? Dean knows exactly what happened. He had a front row seat to the play-by-play. I finally work up the strength to pull my head upright, and I stare at the foot of the staircase on the far side of the room. I’m dreading the moment those clunky, black boots reappear—a prelude to a new set of horrors.

“Are you okay?”

This finally grabs my attention and I force my eyes to the right. Dean is leaning back against his pole, fully facing me, his arms locked behind him. My gaze works its way up from his heather gray running shoes to the mess of tousled, dark brown hair atop his head. It’s starting to curl just below his ears. I remember Mandy complaining that his hair was getting too long and she was about to trim it herself.

I swallow. “I’m fine.”

I’m usually a terrible liar, so I’m impressed with how honest that sounded. It’s not the truth, of course. It’s the greatest lie I’ve ever told.

Dean is fully aware of this. “You’re not fine. You can talk to me.”

An eyebrow raises on instinct as my lazy stare continues to assess him. His jacket was removed at some point, so he’s only wearing a baby blue t-shirt that matches his eyes and faded jeans. “I can talk to you?” I release a grating chuckle. My throat feels raw from all the pointless screaming I’ve been doing. “Because we’re such good friends, right?”

I take in the way his eyebrows pull together, a look of indignation scrawled across his face. “I’m the only friend you’ve got right now,” he says tightly.

“I’d rather be alone.”

Another magnificent lie.

I don’t want to be alone. But Dean is here, and I don’t particularly like him, so I’m going to take all of my fear and trauma out on him. It’s the only sense of control I have right now.