I start to argue, to scream back at him, but I don't have the energy. My throat is too hoarse, and I feel so achingly tired, so much that I can only slump back in bed. So I just nod, biting back tears, and I lie down on the bed. I don't meet Sebastian's gaze as he handcuffs me to either part of the frame, the cool metal brushing against my skin. Then, just like that, he storms off into another room. "Goodnight, angel," he hisses behind him, and his voice sounds so broken it makes me want to scream.

Tears start pouring down my face, and the pain of losing Sebastian too is everywhere. My heart aches and my stomach hurts, and I am so confused, so freaking confused. I don't know who to trust anymore. I don't know what to do. All I know is that I'm miserable, and it’s all because of Sebastian and Marco.

I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking back to the night I first discovered my parents' bodies, to the cop cars and the sirens and the shock I felt. It's kind of like this shock: the shock of something ending.

It's interesting how that happens. How everything can be so good one moment, and then the next, all of the good is gone, whisked away, just like that.

And as I lie there, thinking back to the night my parents died, to the raw and empty pain I felt that night, to the two years of sorrow and loneliness it triggered, only one thought remains:

If Sebastian really is the killer, then I'm going to make him pay.

Chapter Sixteen

I never really liked Christmas. Something about it was always so depressing to me, because every Christmas morning I'd wake up and run to my parents' bedroom to pounce on them and open the presents Santa left me, but every morning, they wouldn't be there. My parents would be gone, with an apology note about how some work crap came up and they were sorry, but if Santa came, I could open the presents without them, as always.

I always knew the whole Santa thing was bullshit, but my parents didn't realize that. They never really realized that I didn't have a real childhood, and they especially never realized it was all thanks to them. When your parents leave you on your own for days at a time all the time, even when you're a kid, it's hard to remain innocent and naïve. It's hard not to learn things you weren't so supposed to know, do things you weren't supposed to do.

And so, I guess you could call me rebellious. But I wasn't really. I just knew about things my parents wouldn't have wanted me to know. Like sex. I knew all about sex. I had it several times throughout high school--it wasn't like anyone else was around to keep me company. So I screwed a lot of boys, went to lots of parties, and did a lot of dancing. That was my life really. Dance, then parties, then sex. Dance was the major theme, the one thing that really kept me company, but random hookups were a strong second. It felt good, I guess, for a time, before my parents died. It felt good to be intimate with someone else. It made me feel like I wasn't so alone after all.

But as much as I disliked Christmas, this Christmas, this Christmas now I'm thirteen--a few years before all of the rebellion began--was supposed to be different. My parents were going to be home for once. They promised me, made sure to clear all of their work plans, and I begged them to please be sure, telling them I needed them, telling them I needed their company just this once. And Mom knelt down beside me, stroking my hair and said of course they'd be here, said that they were sorry they've always been so busy but this time, this year, things would be different.

This Christmas, they would be here.

And I believed them. Or at least, I kind of did. I kept checking on them, though. Throughout the night on Christmas Eve, I kept making sure they were still here, because I didn't want them to leave again. And through the night, each time I checked, I found them in their bed: sound asleep, waiting until morning. I started to feel giddy, going to bed with a spring in my step because for once, I realized, they would be here on Christmas. They would dedicate a whole morning just to me, and I'd feel happy again. I'd feel like I had a real family.

And I couldn't wait. I couldn't wait for that oh-so-distant warmth of knowing I'm loved, knowing there are still people out there who care deeply about me, to replace the growing pit in my stomach.

So come Christmas morning, when my eyes snapped open for the first time and morning sunlight peeked in through the windows, I leapt out of bed and raced toward my parents' bedroom, so thrilled to be able to see them again, just imagining the kinds of things we'd do this morning. I tried to picture what presents they'd give me, what things they'd say, whether they'd make me hot chocolate and rub my back and tell me they loved me like people did in movies. I tried to imagine everything that would happen that morning--everything with them.

I raced into their bedroom and pounced on their bed, waiting for them to pop up and bring me into a warm embrace, waiting for them to make my Christmas amazing.

But the bed was empty.

My heart threatened to plummet at that, but I tried to keep calm. Okay, I thought. Maybe they're surprising me. Yeah. That's got to be it. They're surprising me.

So, giddiness returning, I raced around the house and checked every room, eyes darting about to find them, heart pounding in anticipation.

But no one was there.

Bathroom? Nothing.

Family room? Nothing.

Kitchen? Nothing.

My heart kept sinking and sinking with each room I checked as I realized that, as it turned out, they'd left me again. But it wasn't until I checked my own room that my heart totally plummeted. Because left on my pillow was a note in Mom's rushed handwriting, reading:

Sorry honey. Work got in the way. I know you must be disappointed. But I saw Santa left you some presents. Maybe next year?

And I didn't know what was wrong with me, but as soon as I read the note, I closed my eyes and started crying. I just crumpled against my wall, crying and crying, crying because it felt good to cry, because I didn't know what else to do but let the tears pour out of me. I missed my parents. I missed having them close. I missed spending time with them. And for Christmas, I'd only asked for one thing. Not a toy or a game system or whatever. No. All I'd ask for was for my parents to spend a morning with me, and they couldn't even do that.

They couldn't even stay with me for that long.

They couldn't even be bothered to make sure I was okay.

But I loved my parents, I told myself. I loved them because the occasions they were here, they made everything better. I always told myself they were the one bright spot in my life. I always told myself I needed them.

I can't help but wonder if I always knew I was lying.

I think I did, honestly. And I think I always knew that I hated them with every goddamn part of me, and was only pretending to like them so I wouldn't feel so alone.

I think I always knew that sometimes, when things felt especially dark inside of me and I remembered how manipulative and neglectful they truly were, I was… well, I was glad they're dead.

When I wake up, both of my arms are chained to each bedpost. I shoot up in bed, everything from the night before flooding back to me, but the chains restrain me. I struggle and struggle, trying to break free, but it is no use. I'm trapped here. Locked up. Just as Sebastian told me I would be.

I try to scream, jerking my head desperately around, trying to find someone to hear me and let me free. But there is no one. We're isolated here, up on this long hill. There is no one around to save me.