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“Yeah.”

“Kind of.”

They move my head just enough to see the full extent of the mark Mom left on me. Their hands are warm and soft, but not too gentle, not like Alyssa’s always were. Felicity knows I’m not fragile. I can handle it.

“Looks like it’s already getting better,” they say.

Ugh. “Hit me again. I want it to stay.”

“Maybe you should take a picture?”

“Mom will say I photoshopped it to make her look bad.”

Felicity lets go of my jaw, but doesn’t back away. We’re so close. “Yeah, that tracks. I never trusted her social media anyway. Gives off huge controlling-bitch vibes.” They have no idea. “Are they doing any documentary stuff at the penthouse? Filming? They practically have to, I think. That’s the thing everybody talks about when they talk about you.”

I hadn’t thought of that. “Probably.” I stare up at the ceiling. “If Mom doesn’t have it, then a member of the crew does. It—”

Daniel. At East Early, he was complaining about the producer putting him in charge of all the inane shit: the keys and cards and all of it.

“The cameraman has it,” I say. “The one with the crush on me.”

“Can you get it?”

“I can get it.”

“And when you go, I’m coming with you?”

I should hesitate. Pull back. Huff, roll my eyes.

I don’t.

For the first time, I can’t imagine doing it alone. Walking back in there, into Hell, into the place that destroyed me, alone.

With everything that’s happened, I’m not sure I’d make it out in one piece.

“Obviously,” I say.

“Good.”

And then Felicity reaches for their nightstand to pull a bag of makeup into their lap. They tilt my chin to the light for a better view, and their lips purse as they inspect the mark Mom left.

“But that’s because you’re blackmailing me,” I lie.

A nervous smile splits their face like shattered glass. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Well, you’re in my bed right now. If you don’t like me, maybe you should act like it.”

I almost protest, but there’s nothing I can say in my defense.

They swipe a brush of foundation across my cheek, obscuring the dull red mark Mom left behind. They’re clumsier with makeup than I am, and the shade is too light—they have to mix in a dot of contour to match my tone, the tiny spot of color I get from Dad, some Italian genes from a few generations back—but they’re leaning over me. Bleach-burned hair dangling over their shoulders, gold cross necklace waving gently every time I breathe.

I imagine reaching up, fitting my palm to their soft throat, and squeezing.

They get it. They get what it feels like for everything to be so big and so horrible all the time. To have something cruel and violent chasing at your heels every step you take. And their house, like mine, is the kind of place where you could never actually get better, not really. It’s the kind of house that you have to survive. Even if it makes you “crazy.” I get “crazy.”

Once they’re done with the foundation, Felicity moves on to the setting powder. “I don’t think this is the right shade, either. That’s fine. Maybe. I don’t think it looks too bad …”