1. Preface

1

PREFACE

DAY 0

I didn't try to kill myself. It was an accident. No—more than an accident. A natural disaster, unanticipated and sudden. Fate's fickle lightning strike. Unseen forces joining in cataclysm. No stopping it. No way to prepare.

Et cetera.

No one believes me, of course. Try explaining to your binary-minded father that it wasn't intent, but bad luck, that propelled the car off the cliff. It wasn't even a cliff, really. I've seen cliffs. I've flung my body from them more times than I can count, lips in a rictus of glee, arms arrowed with cutting purpose toward roiling waters.

Not a cliff. Just a little hill. Grassy and rocky, with a mellow incline beyond a short, dinged guardrail. There's no guardrail anymore, at least not where the impact of my car tore a section free, where pressure pushed sparks of defiance from rusted bolts that were no match for a luxury coup going forty-six miles per hour.

"It's for the best, Mia. "

Blinking away residual thoughts of sparks and smoke, I look at my twin brother. Jameson's haggard face bespeaks his sleepless worry, his eyes rimmed with red and underscored with shadow. The stress of my accident has triggered his insomnia.

Our demons exact different prices.

"I'm sorry," my voice whispers between us, a vibration divorced from meaning. I don't feel remorse, and he knows it.

Cold fingers descend onto mine, which clamp harder on the padded armrest.

"This place comes highly recommended. Secure and private. You'll be well cared for."

His voice, unlike mine, holds some semblance of emotion. Pleading, perhaps. A thin veil of grief. Or is it relief?

I don't know why I bother, but I try again. "It was an accident. My shoe?—"

"It's all right."

I swallow the words on my tongue. Choke on the spike of disgruntlement. No one believes me. And I have no one to blame but myself—I've been courting danger with increasing brazenness since I was seven years old, when I broke my arm jumping off the roof.

But the memory of the pain, even the initial searing jolt, has always placed a distant second to the transcendent feeling of weightlessness. For mere moments, I'd been free.

There's a soft knock on the door. An empty platitude, for it swings inward without delay. Jameson straightens from his crouch beside my chair, running fingers through his disheveled brown locks.

"Time for a trim, J," I murmur.

He glances at me, eyes reproachful and amused at once, before facing our visitor. "Car's here?"

My father nods, gaze darting to me and away. His evasiveness doesn't bother me—it isn't anything new. He clears his throat, and I watch his Adam's apple bob beneath his square chin.

"Are you sure this place is better than… than a…" He doesn't finish, but the words hang heavily in the air.

Psychiatric hospital.

Funny farm. Looney bin. Nuthouse.

I almost laugh.

Almost.

"Yes," answers my brother. His fingers twitch toward his head, but he stills the urge by tucking his hands into his pockets. "Their program has a ninety-four percent success rate."

I snort.

Jameson scowls at me. He, at least, isn't afraid of my stare. "It was a fucking nightmare getting you into this place, Mia. You have no idea the convincing I had to?—"

"Jameson," snaps our father.

My brother's lips compress to a white line. At length, he expels a heavy sigh, tension unraveling from his shoulders. His eyes, though, remain fixed on mine, the blue depths clouded gray with emotion. Fear. Resentment. Hope.

I look away first.

Gripping both armrests, I propel myself to my feet. Dull pain radiates from my bruised shoulder down my spine, and my muscles blare a sharper reminder of my infirmities. The limitations of my flesh and bones.

The constraints of gravity.

Jameson reaches for my arm, but I jerk away, wincing as my shoulder protests.

"Don't be such a brat," he says, but his lips are twitching.

Fighting the familiar lure of our shared, twisted humor, I smirk. "At least tell me this place has good drugs."

He laughs, but it has an edge. "If by drugs you mean therapy, then yes. The best drugs on the West Coast."

I open my mouth for a waspish retort, but what comes out instead is a broken plea. "I swear, J, on Mom and Phillip, it was an accident."

My father makes a small noise. From the corner of my eye, I see him lumber from the room. Jameson stiffens beneath my words as if each one is a blow. His jaw clenches and unclenches as he struggles. He wants to believe me. It's something.

Just not enough.

His shoulders sag. His eyes—so tired, the left eyelid twitching—find mine. "Do this for me, Meerkat," he says softly.

He has me.

My molars grinding, I nod. "For you, Jaybird."

My gaze swings around the sterile guest bedroom a final time. My meager wardrobe is already packed, the single suitcase outside. The only remaining evidence of my stay is my cell phone sitting on the nightstand. The small fissures of its cracked, lifeless screen momentarily hypnotize me. A memory of the spiderwebbed cracks of a car windshield drift through my mind.

Jameson takes two steps and snatches the phone, tucking it into the breast pocket of his blazer. My trance broken, I sigh. Now there truly is no trace of me left in my father's Malibu house. Not that there's ever been; his home isn't mine.

"Let's go, Mia."

I wordlessly follow my brother from the room, down an airy hallway, across a tiled foyer, and into the golden, afternoon sunlight. Lifting a hand to shade my eyes, I pause on a terracotta step to stare at the heavily tinted town car. My suitcase is already in the trunk. The back door is open, held by the gloved fingers of a suited man. He's nondescript in every way, his individuality no match for the crushing gears of wealth.

I wonder if he knows I'm a fellow prisoner, or if he cares.

Smiling tightly, I ask my brother, "Will the padded walls be fur-lined, too? Caviar and champagne before my daily shock treatment?"

Jameson snorts, snaking forward to drop a kiss on the top of my head. I bat him away with my good arm, then walk toward the shadowed portal of the car's back seat. I'm not scared, my steps even and steady. Just another day, another disaster.

Nothing scares me anymore. Very seldom does something move me. Not beauty. Not death. Not pain. Not joy.

I'm fairly positive my father thinks I'm a sociopath. The first diagnosis came from a psychiatrist who treated me at thirteen, after an incident wherein I nearly drowned. The second was screamed by a terrified maid after she found me juggling knives in the kitchen. The third and final judgement came from my ex-fiancé after I made a bonfire of his priceless record collection.

Maybe I am a sociopath, but I don't think so. I have feelings aplenty, just not fear. I love my twin, robust red wines, blueberry pancakes, and eighties flicks. And I even love my father.

I loathe my ex and the dumb cow he screwed in our bed. I abhor the smell, texture, and taste of pickles. Baby animals make me cry, and there's nothing funnier than crass jokes.

See? Feelings.

And I have a conscience. I don't willfully hurt or manipulate others, unless they deserve it. I'm not crazy.

Then again, crazy people rarely think they are.

Sliding onto the smooth leather back seat, I duck to see my brother one last time. Shadows blanket me while sunlight highlights his handsome, weary face.

Apropos .

"Catch ya later, Alligator," I taunt.

His lips curve in a small smile. "In a while, Crocodile."

The door slams closed.