The sanity ship sailed. I’d officially snapped.
I was talking to dead people, seeing dead people—and I wasn’t psychic.
Ryan drove me to Mallory the Homewrecker’s house. He’d cleaned up my arm after I got myself back together, but I kept using my arm to clean my tears. So the bandage was soggy, and blackened from my makeup.
Going up to the door, Ryan knocked. His other hand laced through mine.
I considered lifting my bag and saying, “Trick or treat,” but the door opened, and nothing came out of me.
The woman gasped, seeing me.
“Is Mr. Malcolm here?” Ryan asked.
Her hands shot up to cover her mouth. She matched her pictures on f*******:, but she was even prettier in person.
I hated her.
My hostility helped push away some of my craziness, and I was able to stop some of the tears—some
