“If you're going to steal credit cards and commit felony fraud, why not get your daughter some new shoes?” I quip as Heather heads up the stairs to her room. The Thing isn't home just yet, but he will be soon. I'm curious to see what his next move will be, now that he knows I'm plotting against him. I'm going to have to be extremely careful for the next few weeks, watch my every move. If I hit him, he'll send me to juvie faster than you can say sociopathic pedophile pig.

“I taught you manners, Bernadette,” Pamela says, lifting her martini to her lips. She rarely drinks, but when she does, her fights with Neil get even worse. They deserve each other. “Don't you talk to me that way.”

“What way?” I ask, coming around the table with my ratty backpack slung over my shoulder. “Like I think you could do better? That you should do better? Why is it okay for you to waltz around in stolen pearls, but you can't at least pinch Heather some new shoes?”

Pamela waves her hand absently in my direction, her attention focused on the screen of her brand-new iPhone instead of on my face.

“If it's that important to you, take a card and order some shoes. I don't care.” She gestures at the credit cards on the table, but I know that if she's being that generous, it means they're all used up. I've never once had Pamela gift me with anything, not even a piece of something she's stolen. After a moment, she finally looks up at my face. It's clear from her expression that Neil hasn't told her shit—not even that he's possibly gotten an underage teen pregnant. “What? You think you can stay out all the time, ignore my calls, and I'll start showering you with gifts when you deign to return home?”

I just stand there for a moment, staring at her. Her nails are long and red, the pearls around her neck real, her hair coiffed and freshly dyed from a recent salon visit. Pamela's clothes are designer, the gin in her martini top-shelf. She even sits on a beautiful silk couch, but it all looks so strange, paired with the dirty off-white walls of the duplex, the water-stained ceiling, and the open kitchen with its ‘70s cabinets. We live in a shithole while Pamela drapes herself in luxury. She's the epitome of selfish.

“You know why I don't come home, right?” I ask, and Pamela laughs, casting her green-eyed gaze my direction. I hate that I have her eyes, that I have her lips, her curves. I hate everything that ties us together. She can't make me forget that once, when I broke a plate on accident, she forced me to sit outside in the cold in nothing but my underwear while I watched her and the Thing eat a hot meal inside with Penelope and Heather.

Pen tried to sneak me some chicken later, but the Thing caught her, grabbing her by the arm and dragging her away before she could unlock the sliding glass door. I always wondered what happened after that, but she never told me.

Now I know.

I recognized her outfit in that video as the one she had on that night. Everything about that dinner is engraved inside my skull, carved into my bone, a storybook in ivory without a happy ending.

The sound of the police cruiser pulling into the driveway is unmistakable, but instead of running to my room like I usually do, I stay right where I am, facing off against Pam.

“Why don't you tell me?” Pamela quips right back, raising a micro-bladed eyebrow in my direction. “Because you've been whoring yourself out to those thugs?”

A laugh slips past my red-painted lips as the door swings in and there he is, the monster himself. He smiles at me, clearly remembering our interaction on Halloween night, how I was covered in blood, how Aaron could barely stand, how Vic put a gun to his head.

My mind reels at the sight of him, my psyche cracking and splintering into ragged pieces. For a moment there, I can’t see straight. Fuck, I can’t see anything at all except that video, of Neil licking his fat lower lip, of him thrusting into my struggling sister.

Nausea roils in my stomach, and I bend over, vomiting right on his shoes. Pamela recoils with a gasp, clamping a hand over her mouth and spilling her martini all over the couch with a curse.

“What the fuck?” Neil snarls, stumbling back as I stand up straight, running my arm across my lips. Our eyes meet, and I hope he can see in them just how much I hate him. If I have to drag him to hell myself, I’ll do it, and I’ll enjoy the eternal torment, just so long as I know he’s suffering, too. “The hell is wrong with you?”

“You,” I say, feeling like my spine is made of steel, my heart forged in iron, my willpower wooden and immovable. I wasn’t able to be there for Penelope when she was alive, but I’ll be damned if I don’t avenge her now. Kill him, kill him, kill him, my psyche whispers, but as pissed as I am with Havoc right now, I trust in their plan.

Neil Pence will pay; it’s just a matter of time.

He sneers at me, kicking his foot and spattering the wall with vomit.

“Clean this shit up,” he barks at me, but I just smile back at him. The video of him and Pen is playing across my vision, my worst nightmare on repeat. I can’t erase that trauma, but I sure as shit can hone it into a sharp edge and spill blood with it. I feel twitchy right now, and if Heather weren’t here and counting on me, I’d probably just head outside and start running. I don’t think I’d stop until I collapsed.

“I have no intention of doing any such thing,” I tell him, completely unafraid. Havoc Girl, Havoc Girl, Havoc Girl. The words echo around in my skull, helping to banish the sounds from that awful, awful video. “I’m sure you’re tired from all of that protecting and serving you’ve done today, but you have two hands. Clean it up yourself.”

Neil clenches his teeth, still dressed in his uniform and sneering like the wicked, evil thing he is. His expression reminds me of a spider's web, of the dried insect carcasses caught in the silk, spinning beneath the pointed legs of a venomous arachnid. He loves to see his victims squirm, so I refuse to give him the pleasure.

“You’re gettin’ a mouth on you, girl,” he says, moving closer in an attempt to intimidate me. “Almost as bad as Penelope was before she died.” He smiles now, and my vision goes red. It takes everything I have inside of me to hold back. I’m better than that, better than him. Whatever small amount of satisfaction I’d get from hitting him right now, it’ll be a drop of water in the ocean compared to Havoc’s plans. “Must be because of that gang you’re running with. It’s time we had a talk about those hoodlums.”

I look back at Pamela.

“Better to whore myself out to 'those thugs',” I make quotes with my fingers, “than let your husband fuck me into an early grave.”

The room goes silent, and then Neil is coming at me, getting up in my face as Pamela sloshes what’s left of her martini all over the coffee table as she slams it down on the glass surface.

“You want to say that again?” Neil threatens, the toes of his shoes just an inch from my own. “Considering all the things I know.”

“What about the things I know?” I retort, my heartbeat thundering as I smell his sour breath, and the reek of old sweat from his uniform. Unfortunately, Neil Pence isn't a particularly unattractive man, but over the years, he's gotten uglier and uglier to me, to the point where I'm not even sure what he really looks like, without that filter over his better-than-average features. He sickens me, he smells to me, and I don't know if it's all in my head or not. The mind can play strange tricks, can't it?

“You think you can shake me with that shit?” Neil asks, reaching out to touch my hair. I slap his hand away as Pamela scrambles up from the couch, shoving between us to take her husband's side. Like always.

“Keep your hands off of my man,” she snaps, looking at me like I'm the greatest mistake she ever made.

Frankly, I think she might be right about that.

I'm going to make it my mission to become her worst nightmare.

“Just a bunch of brats playing a game with rules they don't understand,” Neil tells me as I move past them and head up the stairs. “Keep pushing, little girl, and you'll find yourself in that metaphorical grave.”

“Likely,” I start, pausing at the top of the stairs and leaning over the railing. “It's going to end up the other way.” The video flickers in my mind again, and I brush it away as Pamela starts to scream at me. I'll see him fucking buried for what he did, I think as I push open the door to my room and slam it closed behind me.

I've trained Heather well, so she's already situated on the bed with her headphones in, using my phone to watch YouTube.

Good girl.

I flick the locks on the door, grab Pen's journal, and sit in the bathtub with all my clothes on to read it. Fortunately, Heather can't hear me when I start to cry.

Prescott High, November fourth. Total shitshow.

As soon as I get there and see Principal Vaughn standing in the front hallway, I almost lose my shit.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” I whisper as Aaron pauses beside me, his body cloaked in a baggy hoodie to hide his injury, his green-gold gaze locked on the principal. “He's not supposed to be here, Aaron.”

“No shit,” Aaron murmurs, glancing down at me. I look back at him, and this moment passes between us, one where I remember his hot cum in my palm, and he's probably thinking about my tit in his mouth. Doesn't matter. I can't focus on personal stuff, not right now. I'm too angry with Havoc as a whole to think past business. Having to ride with Aaron all the way to school this morning was agony though. I'm just not built to deal with feelings.

“Well, this is unexpected,” Oscar quips, moving up to stand beside me. He taps his fingers on the screen of a brand-new iPad, glancing my way and noticing the direction of my stare. He smiles, a slow, awful smile, the smile of a devil. I ignore him, turning back to look at Principal Vaughn instead. If he's here, it's because the Thing encouraged him to be. I could see it written all over my stepdad's face this morning: he thinks this is fun. That, and he intends to win. “I don't like surprises.”