I sit up and fold my arms across the surface of the table.

“Why did you marry my father?” I ask, because I need to know all of this. And, in this last moment, if Pamela can give me a scrap of something to hold onto, I’ll let her live the rest of her days out in prison. Frankly, it would be a better punishment than death really. She’ll hate the food and the lack of designer clothing, the absence of nail artists from Oak Park, the lack of a hairstylist with experience working on Hollywood stars. She’ll hate this place because it will embody everything that she deserves: a desperate, empty, lonely cage. Forever.

At the same time, I know that my list of vengeance was not made for the people whose names ended up on it. It was designed for me, by me, and if you ever thought a personal vendetta was the only reason this story was penned, I feel sorry for you. If you thought all those soft and quiet in-between moments were filler, then you didn’t understand. If you disliked me because the ugly things inside of me made you see the ugly things inside of you, then you’re just as lost as I once was.

Not anymore.

Never again.

When Victor put that crown on my head, I knew that it wasn’t a reward for the violence, that it wasn’t a reward for bashing in James Barrasso’s head. It was a reward for reclaiming myself, for falling into my own skin and finding out that I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

Mixed reviews from critics stained with blood and tears,

The politics of a broken life are really just reality,

My words are what set me free, so if I have to be something polarizing,

Then that’s exactly what I’m going to be.

The poetry filters through my head, unbidden. I couldn’t stop it if I tried. Any attempt to hold back that twisted prose would leave me writhing on the floor in agony, poisoned by it. Consumed by it. So I don’t bother. I just tap my pretty nails on the table and let it come, memorizing every line of my mother’s face so I know exactly the type of person that I never want to become.

“I married him for his money,” Pamela says, sitting back in her orange jumpsuit and looking like a supermodel even with the faint purple circles under her eyes. She’s pretty, just like me. We’re both pretty and look at what a curse it is. The world simultaneously rewards and punishes pretty, doesn’t it? “I’d have done anything back then to get away from your grandparents.” She keeps staring at me, but like she has no idea who I am or why I’m here. “Does that answer your fucking question, you ugly little brat?”

The insult bounces off of me. She can hate me all she wants. I have people who love me, so guess what? The worst the world has to throw at me means nothing. Her ugly words can’t take away the satisfaction of knowing that I’ve got the one thing I’ve always dreamed of: acceptance. A place to belong.

“Why did you want to get away from them?” I continue, realizing that this is literally the longest conversation we’ve had in years. How sad is that? Maybe Pamela would’ve seen something to like in me or Penelope or Heather if she’d bothered spending time with us?

“This is fucking ridiculous,” Pam sneers, looking away from me toward one of the guards, like she might ask to be taken back to her cell. My turn to slam both palms on the surface of the table. My turn to get a look from one of the guards.

I keep my eyes on my mother.

“Do you think I’m fucking kidding you?” I whisper, leaning in. Our eyes meet. “You know that we killed Neil, don’t you? You know that we buried that monster alive in a satin-lined coffin which was a far nicer end to his life than he deserved.”

Pamela’s eyes blaze with fury—especially because this isn’t news to her. She knows all about Neil’s death, his burial, the fact that the oxygen tank found in the coffin with him came from one of the nursing homes she moonlights at.

My mother leans forward, looking me dead in the face.

“Of all my children, you were always the worst. There were moments, early on, with Penelope where I thought I could be happy. But you? You were the worst mistake I’ve ever made.” Pam leans back after delivering what she thinks is a fatal blow crafted of words and pain. It hits me and slides right off like nothing.

“This is your absolute last chance to answer my questions,” I continue, proud of myself for keeping my breathing even and steady. “You know what happened to Neil. If you think being inside these walls keeps you safe, then you’re even more of a fool than I pegged you for years ago. Why did you want to get away from your parents?”

“I’m not giving you my autobiography,” Pam snaps back, and I go to stand up.

If that’s her final answer then … well, I’ll use my new connections with Vera and Stacey’s girls to get what I need. I’ll have her fucking killed, and I’ll slash her name from my list with a lipstick color that reminds me of Penelope, and then I’ll probably cry for a while.

Throughout it all, I’ll have the Havoc Boys to fall into.

Even now, they’re waiting for me outside, piled on the roof or the hood of the Camaro, smoking, watching, waiting. Five boys in black with crude letters crafted of ink on their left hands, their hearts dark and obsessive, but poignant in their determination, in their love. Unfailing.

“Your grandfather was a drunk. He beat me and your grandmother. He used to fuck her, too, while she screamed. Does that answer your question?” Pam snaps as I lower myself back to the seat across from her. Those familiar green eyes of hers blaze with pain, but I can only sympathize so much. She is no longer just a victim; she is a perpetrator. There is no excuse for that. None at all. “I married your father because he was wealthy, and he wanted me. He wanted me so much that he divorced his wife of ten years.”

I stare at her and try to imagine her at my age, with one kid and another on the way.

“He was too old for you,” I say instead, but Pam just shrugs.

“He had money. He could take care of me.” She looks away for a moment, and I wonder if I don’t see some spark of emotion there. When she glances back however, there’s nothing. “The only man I ever loved was Neil, and you took him from me.”

“You let him rape your daughter,” I hiss back, but Pamela’s face shows me nothing. It occurs to me that sometimes people are just broken; struggling and clawing my way toward empathy does nothing, accomplishes nothing. “How long did you know about it?” I ask, and I can see in the casual shrug of her shoulders, it was a long time. “Did you know he was fucking a teenage girl named Kali Rose-Kennedy? That she was pregnant with his kid?”

“You kill her, too?” Pamela shoots back at me, her nostrils flaring. “Because they’re trying to peg that on me.” Oh, shit. I didn’t know that one yet. Where did the guys bury her? I wonder. On Tom’s land? I suppose it doesn’t matter now. With the Grand Murder Party taking blame for most of our crimes, and Pamela taking the fall for the rest, we could really and truly walk away from this thing with ‘clean’ hands. “Neil didn’t love her. He just had desires that I couldn’t fulfill.”

“I hate you,” I tell her, and I mean that. With every single molecule of my heart, I mean that. It’s not like when I say it to Victor or Oscar and what I really mean is I love you so much it hurts, so much that it aches and burns and bleeds from the very depths of my wicked soul. “That’s why I saved you for last. You know that, right? Out of everyone that’s ever hurt me, your betrayal is the worst. It cuts the deepest.” I pause again, wondering if I should ask about Penelope’s things, but what’s the point? Pam either sold them or gave them away or, hell, threw them in a dumpster somewhere and sent them to the landfill. I won’t ever have anything that isn’t in that box marked Old Homework and Assignments in sweet, soft, looping letters. “How did you do it, Pam? How did you kill my sister?”