When she saw him, his back to the door, she almost called out his name, but something stopped her. He said something she could not hear, and she watched, incredulous, as he failed to come to her, clenching a spoon in his hand like a weapon. “John!” she called at last. But he did not turn around. Marla and Jessica ushered her out of the restaurant, making reassuring sounds that must have been words, and Charlie strained to see him through the window: he had not moved. How can he pretend I’m not here?

A shock of pain hit her suddenly, yanking her back to the present, and Charlie hugged herself tightly, though it didn’t really help: it was everywhere, sharp and hot. She clenched her jaw, unwilling to make a sound. Sometimes it eased to an ache she could push to the back of her awareness; sometimes it vanished for days at a time, but always it came back.

Were you hurt? John had asked, the first—the only—sign he’d given that he might still care, and she had been unable to reply. Yes, she could have said. Yes, I was and I still am. Sometimes I think I’ll die of it, and what I feel now is just an echo of what it used to be. It feels like all my bones are broken; it feels like my guts are twisted and torn; it feels like my head has cracked open, and things are leaking out, and it happens again and again. She clenched her teeth, taking deliberate breaths, until it began slowly to recede.

“Charlie? Are you okay?” Jessica said quietly, appearing beside her on the sidewalk outside Clay’s house. Charlie nodded.

“I didn’t hear you come over,” she said hoarsely.

“He doesn’t mean to hurt you. He’s just—”

“Traumatized,” Charlie snapped. “I know.” Jessica sighed, and Charlie shook her head. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“I know,” Jessica said. Charlie sighed, closing her eyes. He’s not the one who died—and it did feel like dying. She could only remember that crucial night in fragments: her thoughts were all scraps and whispers, hazy and muddled, everything circling slowly around a central point: the single unmistakable snapping sound of the spring locks. Charlie shivered, and felt Jessica’s hand touch her shoulder. She opened her eyes, looking helplessly at her friend.

“I think he just needs time,” Jessica said gently.

“How much time can he need?” Charlie asked, and the words sounded like stone.

CHAPTER THREE

It’s ready.” A soft voice rang out in the dark.

“I’ll tell you when it’s ready,” said the man slumped in the corner, studying a monitor intently. “Raise it a few more degrees,” he whispered.