He still has a scar, you know, from where I hit him with the vintage toy firetruck that was decorating the nightstand beside my bed. Eric almost lost an eye. Every day since I've wished that I'd robbed him of his sight the way he'd robbed so many girls of their sense of safety.

Pursing my lips in determination, I follow after Oscar, taking the curving staircase one step at a time, the sound echoing in the vast palace that is the Kushner's home. My palm skims up the banister, caressing the metal railing as I remember running down these stairs in my nightgown, Eric's blood on my hands.

I ran down the street, and I didn't stop running until my feet were bleeding and my entire body ached. The next morning, I called my social worker—Coraleigh Vincent—from the phone at the antique store. She came alright, but when she got there, she wasn't on my side. Not even close.

I pause on the top landing, looking down the hallway at the rows of doors on either side. Oscar takes a separate key from the pocket of his slacks and unlocks one, like he's been here plenty of times before.

“Where did you get that key?” I ask, hanging back, hating the dark wave of suspicion that's washing over me. I should trust Havoc, trust their twisted view of the world. I paid them, fair and square. I'm one of them.

“Off a hook in the kitchen,” Oscar says smoothly, pushing the door open and stepping inside. It takes me a minute to follow after him, wrapped up in old memories and pain. Penelope suffered here, too. Not quite as badly as she did with the Thing, but only because we weren't here long enough for her to be raped. Just molested. Just. I hate that I can even use that word in reference to my sister's sexual abuse.

After a moment, I gather my courage and move down the hall, entering an innocuous looking bedroom that's quite clearly decked out in Pottery Barn and high thread count sheets. Money. That's what it's decorated in: cold, hard cash.

Oscar starts looking through drawers right away, meticulously examining every inch but without disturbing anything. It's impressive, I'll admit.

“What are we looking for here? Evidence?” I ask dryly, raising an eyebrow. All Oscar does is laugh.

“What do you think this is?” he asks, his smooth voice a balm to the rage burning within me. Oscar is so goddamn calm, so cool-headed, so well-collected. “Dexter? We don't need any evidence. You said you wanted Eric Kushner dealt with, so he'll be dealt with.” Oscar pauses to smile, reaching out a finger to touch a framed photo of Eric, all dressed up in his hunting gear and hauling a rifle, his dog by his side.

“Not the dog,” I tell him, my voice threaded through with a deadly ribbon. Oscar glances my way, but just barely. “I hope you can see how serious I am about that.”

“Don't worry, darling,” Oscar oozes, infuriating me even further. “We're not such monsters that we need you to tell us the basic rules of morality. No kids, no dogs. Don't worry: there are other ways to make pigs squeal.” Oscar picks up a photo of Eric and his father next, examining it carefully before turning it over. He removes the velvet backing and extracts the photo, folding it and sliding it into the front pocket of his suit. “How about the old man? Any qualms about taking him out with the trash?”

I think about Eric's father, Todd, smiling as he handed me a pink bikini and then sat down by the poolside to watch me swim, eyes hungry, tongue running across his lower lip.

“I don't care what happens to him,” I say, shaking my head. “He never touched me, but he might as well have. He knows his son's proclivities and has no qualms about paying for them.”

Oscar smirks at me, turning and heading purposely in the direction of a decorative bookshelf. Its shelves are covered with pieces of African art, a giraffe carved from wood here, a metal elephant there. Eric thinks of himself as a white savior, heading to other countries to 'save' people who don't need saving. Knowing what I know about him now, I'm guessing he does a hell of a lot more than just virtue signaling.

“What are you doing?” I ask as Oscar digs his inked fingers beneath the edges of the bookcase, swinging it open toward us and revealing a hidden room. My mouth drops open, but Oscar just smiles at me.

“Have you ever seen a bookcase with hinges?” he asks, cocking a brow before continuing inside. As soon as I get close to the opening, I know there are going to be things in there I don't like.

“It's a pleasure dungeon,” he adds, and I just shake my head.

“No,” I growl back, feeling my skin crawl. “This is a torture chamber.”

Oscar doesn't say anything, moving into the room to look at the devices and their leather straps, their handcuffs, their ball gags. It's basically a BDSM paradise, but one where the participants have no say.

I vomit. For the second time in a week.

I don't mean to, it just happens.

Oscar doesn't look very sympathetic about it, wrinkling his nose slightly in disgust as I turn away from the smell.

“Don’t clean that up; leave it for Eric to wonder about,” he tells me, moving further into the room and letting his long fingers play across a Saint Andrew’s Cross, a sex bench, a wall covered in handcuffs. There are cameras everywhere, but none of them seem to be on; their wicked eyes are dark and shrouded. Eric doesn’t just rape girls in here; he films it.

I gag again, but nothing comes up, so I spit on Eric’s bedspread and swipe my arm across my lips. The further Vic digs his claws into me, the more my numbness, my shield against the world, gives way. And the further I get into my list, the more wicked my reality becomes. It’s no surprise that I’ve been vomiting lately. Over the Thing’s video. Over Eric’s torture chamber. My body is full of wickedness and hate, and it’s only natural that I should purge.

Without a second thought, I move into the room and shove the cross over. It crashes into the floor, denting the shiny, dark wood planks and splintering in several places. Oscar raises a brow and turns back to look at me, crossing his arms over his chest. Panting, I start in on the bench, pushing it on its side and then yanking open a black cabinet on the wall. Inside, there are whips, chains, belts, dildos, all manner of filth and fury. I grab a knife that’s stained with blood and try not to think about the things it’s been used for—or the way it might’ve been used on me, if given the chance.

Tears are streaming down my face as I plunge the knife into the cushioned surface of the upturned bench, rending the leather to shreds, turning the room white with fluff. I don’t stop there, emptying the cabinet and throwing everything on the floor. I’m not even thinking at that point; I’m reacting.

Oscar says nothing, does nothing, just simply stands there studying me as I bare myself to him in a way I never meant to. He’s seeing the raw, unedited side of me and I find the reality of that terrifying. I’m pretty sure Vic sent us here together to, like, make us bond or some stupid shit. He’s worried that we hate each other; I’m worried that he’s right.

“Are you quite finished?” Oscar asks, lifting a delicate brow after I slump to my knees in the center of the ruined room. I can barely see the destruction in front of me. Instead, all I can see are memories, memories of Pen’s face after she stepped out of Eric’s room one night. Memories of her sad smile as she ushered me back to bed.