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My brain catches up with the scene unfolding in front of me; it all feels so . . . surreal. It’s dreamlike in the way neither of us speaks. Just standing outside a ramshackle motel, waiting for the other to say something. I’d think I was stuck in a photograph if it weren’t for the flakes of snow floating down in silence, the sound of cars zooming down the freeway in the distance.

The fact that he won’t say anything has a lump forming in my throat.

What the actual fuck is going on?

I blink a few times, then crane my neck to look behind him and peek through the cracked door. “What are you doing?”

He steps closer and shuts the door behind him and glances away. That’s when I notice the beads of sweat on his forehead.

I repeat myself, slower this time. “What are you doing?”

He crosses his arms, still avoiding me. “Anna.”

“Look at me!”

His eyes find mine, but this time they don’t land on me with affection like they usually do. They’re calculating and cold. “Anna,” he repeats, quieter this time. “You need to go.”

I take a step to the side and he mirrors it, widening his stance.

He’s unbelievable. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

“This isn’t the time for this conversation⁠—”

“Move.”

“Just head back to your apartment, I will meet you there in half an hour and we can talk it through.”

I glare at him. “Fucking. Move.” My heart is pounding so hard, it feels like it might explode.

He holds his ground and I shove him aside before I can think better of it. To my surprise, he actually stumbles to the side and lets me wedge myself between him and the door. I grab the handle and shove it open, stumbling into a room covered with plastic sheeting. My nose instantly wrinkles at the smell—a mixture of bleach, mildew, burned hair, and something metallic.

A man sits with his back to me, tied to a chair, his head lolled to the side.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.

Behind me, I hear Casper’s voice, calm and steady. “Don’t.”

I no longer answer to him, for anything. I take a few cautious steps closer to the chair.

His palms bracket my sides, attempting to hold me back and I slap them away without looking. He doesn’t get to touch me, not anymore.

As I round the man in the chair, I clap a hand over my mouth.

Blood—so much blood.

It covers the man’s chin, shirt, and lap. Small red puddles pool on the plastic floor. Along with . . . I squint and then gasp—teeth.

I glance back up to the man; his lips are split and stained red, matching his chin. His head tilts just enough for the light to hit right and I see that almost all his teeth are gone. Only the front two remain.

Everything inside me drops out and I stumble back a couple steps, reaching for something to grab onto.

“Easy,” Casper says, coming in behind me to steady me. I tear myself out of his grasp and spin around, putting myself closest to the door.

I need to leave. Now.

“Listen to me,” he says, holding up his hands as if it’s supposed to make me feel safer.

I shake my head, unable to speak.