I know I should shut up. There’s no use torturing him with this—punishing him for something long past and out of his control—but I can’t seem to stop. Not now. Not here in the place where it all started, where the past is suddenly converging with my present. I can’t fucking stop.

“I was so scared he’d punish me more for-for soiling myself, I used my closet as a toilet,” I tell him raggedly. “I was given no food or water, or even a fucking bucket to piss in. Nothing to wash off the blood or clean my injuries. By the second day, I was ready to eat my own shit,” I choke out and he flinches. “And the fucked-up thing is I can’t even remember if I did or not because I was delirious from the agony at that point. I screamed and I cried and I begged and it didn’t matter. Because you know what he told me before he locked me in?”

Will is flat out crying now—shoulders quaking, silent sobs that have something deep inside me cracking wide open.

“He told me I killed my mom. That’s how I found out, Will.” I press a hand to my chest. “At six fucking years old, that’s how I found out I’m the reason she’s dead. That I was never supposed to be born. That I was the worst thing to ever happen to him. That I—”

“Stop,” Will chokes out.

I laugh bitterly, brokenly. “Stop what? Telling you the truth?” I spread my hands. “Isn’t this what you fucking wanted all along? Answers?”

He’s shaking his head. “I only ever wanted you to be okay. I only ever wanted to know you were okay.”

This time, I’m the one flinching. And all I can think is, How dare he?

I hate him, I realize. In this moment, I truly and fucking hate Will Foster.

The next thing I know I’m walking past him toward the dresser in the corner. He says my name but I ignore him as I crouch down, feeling my way across the grooves between the slats of wood, seeking out the loose floorboard I can only hope my uncle never discovered during his little remodeling project.

There, I think as the wood gives way beneath my fingers. I shove away the relief trying to worm its way in when I see the dust-coated wrinkled-up brown bag hidden beneath, clearly untouched. I’m just grateful no one discovered it. That’s all.

I don’t bother brushing it off as I pry it out. Standing, I make my way back to Will and shove it into his chest. “Here,” I say flatly, not meeting his eye.

His hands come up just in time to catch it before it can fall to the floor.