“Good morning,” Hannah sang from the kitchen, slicing root vegetables for Pam’s gross shakes. My mom lived off vegetables, Botox, and wine. A diet made in Hollywood hell. If Hannah was surprised to see me—which she should have been as I never left my room during the mornings because I slept away the night run’s exhaustion—she didn’t let it show.

“Hungry?” She peered under her lashes.

“Famished.” I opened our glass fridge, sticking my head in.

“Pancakes it is, then.” I heard her cluck her tongue behind me. Hannah was nice. Too nice for Pam. Darren treated her well, but Pam had conveniently forgotten that she’d been waiting tables not too long ago, before Darren had found us, his pretty little strays.

“Please don’t bother.” I put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, realizing I wouldn’t have done that weeks ago, before I met Bane. The forty-something-year-old used her waist to butt me out of the way in front of the fridge. “It’s your birthday. Well, technically a day after, but birthday girls deserve pancakes. It’s a rule.”

It was a rule I was happy not to break.

I sat at the breakfast nook, watching Hannah doing her thing while twisting a lock of hair around my finger and chewing on it. I needed a haircut. No. I’ll rephrase—I wanted a haircut. For the first time in years, I wanted to look pretty. Or maybe I was simply ready to be seen. Hannah squatted down to take out a measuring cup from a drawer, and when she turned around, holding the stainless steel thing in her hand, my jaw went slack.

Me. Sitting on a couch. Reading a book. Everything around me is black.

Him. His back to me, just like all the pictures I took ever since the day it happened.

Backs.

Heads.

Necks.

Faceless people.

He held something made out of stainless steel in his hand. Cup? Shaker? It smelled of vodka. His vodka.

“Dad?” I asked. But, of course, it couldn’t have been. I loved my dad. I put my half-eaten Kit Kat bar on the table beside me and rose to my feet.

“I want to leave.”

“No.” His hand locked on my wrist. He was sweating. He still had no face. Why didn’t he have a face? “No, baby.”

I watched the younger version of me as her face twisted with realization. She was not going to get out of that room. Not the same way she’d walked in, anyway.

“Please, I don’t want to…”

She didn’t get to finish the sentence. He pinned her to the wall like the masterpiece that she was and tarnished her into something empty and hollow.

“Jesse? Jesse? Honey?” Hannah shook my shoulders, and I finally snapped out of it. In front of me was a plate full of thick, fluffy, hot pancakes and maple syrup poured generously on top. Blueberries and cut strawberries made out the number twenty. And I’d officially lost my appetite.

“I made you the good stuff with the Sparrow Brennan mix that costs two bucks more, but your parents can handle it. What’s wrong? You seemed out of it.” Hannah wiped her hands on her apron, leaning against the counter and pouring herself a glass of OJ.

“Yes. I’m sorry.” I smiled, hurrying to stab a fork into the mountain of pancakes and bring a bite to my lips.

I forced myself to eat at least two, knowing how hard Hannah had worked on them, but for the life of me couldn’t taste their sweetness.

Something in me told me Mayra could not know about this.

I washed my plate, gave Hannah a hug and, when she wasn’t looking, grabbed the stainless steel cup and carried it to my room. I put it on my desk, staring at it, lost in thought.

What happened to me?

Since I didn’t have a shift, and Roman hadn’t answered me, I decided to pester Dr. Wiese. I called him twice, but he didn’t answer. Reluctantly, I walked over to Mrs. Belfort’s, my mind still on Shadow. I felt like I’d been neglecting Mrs. Belfort ever since I got a job, and I promised myself I wouldn’t be that person. The person all my high school friends turned out to be after The Incident. A user. A leaver. An asshole.

First, I took a lengthy trip by myself in the maze, trying to decode my most recent flashback. Yes, flashback. A chunk of my memory was missing from my brain, and I didn’t know how or what had happened to me exactly, but I knew that it had snowballed into a catastrophe that had ended up ruining my life.

I hadn’t been a virgin when I’d met Emery.

And whoever took my virginity, did it by force.

My dad died around the same time it had happened. I knew, because in all the flashbacks, I looked to be on the verge of adolescence. Twelve, maybe thirteen. Although I loved my father dearly, I couldn’t help but wonder—what did I know about him, really?