“Same here. It’s this strange, hollow feeling—like a hungry hole that needs to be filled, but food isn’t the answer.” Cora averts her eyes to just beyond my shoulder, drifting away before I can catch her. She finds her way back after about ten seconds, shifting on the couch and picking at the hem of her sweater.

“Are you seeing a therapist?” I wonder.

She nods, still avoiding my gaze. “I’m pretty sure my therapist needs a therapist at this point.”

I observe the way she gnaws on the inside of her lip, scratching at her wrist as she stares at the far wall. “Have you told them… everything?”

Have you told them your sister’s fiancé was forced to fuck you six times, and one of those times you got off?

I keep the fucked up truths to myself as she nods and replies, “Mostly.”

I want to know which part she omitted, but I’m pretty sure I already do.

Cora changes the subject. “Did they ever find your car?”

My motherfucking car. If I could kill that piece of shit all over again, I probably would. I spent two years saving up for a down payment on my dream Camaro with all the bells and whistles—I only had it three months before Earl “made it disappear”. I shake my head, my anger simmering. “Nope. I’m going back and forth with my insurance company, seeing if there’s anything they can do. I’ve been taking an Uber to my therapy appointments.”

“That sucks. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, it’s replaceable. Eventually. He took a hell of a lot more from you.”

We both let that dark cloud hover over us for a minute, and I kind of wish I could take it back. I didn’t mean to give her wounds life. Cora seems to mentally retreat, and I can only imagine what she’s thinking about.

I hope she’s thinking about me talking her through it, begging her to focus on me, to only see me, to only hear me…

But I know she’s not.

“They’re searching for more bodies,” Cora says in a low, shaky breath. “They’ve uncovered a bunch of bones buried on his property. They’re trying to identify the victims.”

I close my eyes. “Fuck…” I haven’t been keeping track of the story unfolding. It’s too much for me to deal with. It’s too soon, too fresh, too personal. I’ve already recanted the story to the police, the doctors, my therapist. I was grilled by detectives who were wondering if they had a goddamn murder case against me. While it was obviously self-defense, there wasn’t a clean bullet wound or a quick stab to the heart. No—I fucking pulverized the bastard with my bare hands. It was violent and savage and out of control.

He had to be identified by dental records.

But given the circumstances, there were no charges brought against me. Thank God. The last thing I wanted was to leave one prison and go straight to another.