The Ford pickup jerked to a halt in the wide gravel driveway of the Hawkins house.

Jessi killed the engine and yanked the keys from the ignition. She turned in her seat, her eyes locking onto Bart with a hard, uncompromising glare.

"Listen to me, Bart," Jessi commanded, her voice sharp. "You are never to go near that Thornton property again. You hear me? I won't have my son dragged through the mud by that family."

Bart kept his eyes fixed on the dashboard. His jaw muscles flexed.

"And to put an end to this nonsense," Jessi continued, her tone shifting to forced brightness, "I talked to Mrs. Higgins this morning. She's arranged a date for you with the Miller girl from the next town over. Her father owns the big dairy farm. You're meeting her on Saturday."

The word "date" hit Bart's ears, and a wave of pure, suffocating irritation washed over him.

He shoved the passenger door open with enough force to make the hinges groan.

"I'm not going," Bart ground out, his voice thick with suppressed anger. "I'm not interested in the Miller girl, or any girl you set up."

He stepped out of the truck and slammed the door shut before Jessi could scream a reply. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and walked away, his long strides eating up the distance toward the edge of town.

Fifteen minutes later, Bart pushed through the heavy, grease-stained doors of Old Joe's Auto Repair.

The air inside was thick with the smell of motor oil, exhaust fumes, and cheap tobacco. It was his sanctuary.

His two best friends, Spider and Grit, were leaning over the open hood of a beat-up Chevy, their hands covered in black grease.

They looked up as Bart walked in. Seeing the dark, murderous cloud hanging over his head, they exchanged a quick, knowing look.

Spider wiped his hands on a dirty rag and tossed a cold, sweating bottle of beer from a nearby cooler to Bart.

Bart caught it effortlessly.

Grit leaned against the Chevy's fender, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

"So," Grit started, his voice dripping with amusement. "The whole town is buzzing, Hawkins. They say you had the Thornton girl pinned down on her own front lawn. Giving her a real good kissing."

Bart popped the metal cap off the bottle with his teeth and spit it onto the concrete floor. He tipped his head back and downed half the freezing liquid in one long swallow, letting the cold burn his throat.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and let out a harsh, cold laugh.

"It was a damn accident," Bart sneered, his voice loud and dismissive. "I tripped. You think I'd willingly put my mouth on that crazy bitch? I'd rather kiss a stray dog."

Spider and Grit burst into loud, obnoxious laughter. They bought the lie completely.

"Man, I don't blame you," Spider chuckled, picking up a wrench. "She's completely lost her mind. Throwing herself in the river because Julian Sloan wouldn't give her the time of day. Pathetic."

"Yeah," Grit chimed in, shaking his head. "She's got a pretty face, I'll give her that. But there's absolutely nothing going on upstairs. Just a brainless, desperate little tease."

The words hit Bart's ears, and something inside him violently snapped.

A sudden, blinding surge of rage flooded his veins. His grip on the glass beer bottle tightened until his knuckles turned bone-white. The muscles in his forearms coiled like steel springs.

Without a word of warning, Bart raised his arm and slammed the bottom of the glass bottle down onto the metal workbench.

BANG!

The sound was deafening in the garage. The glass didn't shatter, but the force sent a spray of foam and beer shooting into the air.

Spider and Grit jumped back, their laughter dying instantly in their throats. They stared at Bart in absolute shock.

Bart's eyes were pitch black, burning with a terrifying, lethal intensity. He took a slow step toward them.

"Shut your damn mouths," Bart said. His voice wasn't a yell. It was a low, deadly whisper that carried more threat than a scream. "If I hear either of you say another word about her, I'll break your jaws. She might be an idiot, but she's not a tease, and she's none of your business."

The garage was dead silent. The only sound was the drip of spilled beer hitting the concrete.

Spider and Grit swallowed hard, nodding slowly. They had never seen Bart defend anyone like this. Let alone a Thornton.

Bart realized he was breathing heavily. He saw the shock in his friends' eyes and realized he had just completely exposed himself.

He cursed violently under his breath. He turned his back on them, grabbed a heavy wrench off the table, and walked toward the darkest corner of the garage. He slid under a rusted chassis and began violently yanking on a stuck bolt, desperate to use the physical pain in his muscles to drown out the terrifying truth in his heart.

The sharp, chemical sting of antiseptic was the first thing to pierce the darkness.

Delois slowly peeled her eyelids open. The dull, rhythmic throbbing at the base of her skull made her stomach roll with nausea.

She was lying in her own bed. The heavy curtains were drawn shut, casting the room in a dim, gray light.

She turned her head slightly. Her mother, Blanca, was sitting in the worn wooden rocking chair beside the bed. Blanca's head was resting against the back of the chair, her eyes closed, deep lines of exhaustion etched into her face.

As Delois shifted her weight, the mattress creaked.

Blanca's eyes snapped open. She leaped out of the chair and hovered over the bed, her hands fluttering nervously over Delois's blankets.

"You're awake," Blanca breathed, her voice thick with unshed tears. She reached out and gently brushed a stray lock of hair away from Delois's bandaged forehead. Then, her face hardened. "You foolish, foolish girl. Why did you jump in front of your brother's fist to protect that Hawkins boy? He's a menace!"

Delois forced a weak, pale smile. She reached out from under the covers and wrapped her fingers around her mother's rough, warm hand.

"I'm sorry, Mama," Delois whispered, making her voice sound small and fragile. "I didn't think. I was just so scared when I saw the punch coming. It was just a reflex."

Blanca sighed, the anger melting away instantly. She leaned down and carefully tucked the quilt tighter around Delois's shoulders.

Before Blanca could speak again, the brass handle of the bedroom door clicked. The door swung open with a slow, deliberate creak.

Felicie, her eldest sister-in-law, stepped into the room.

Felicie carried a wooden serving tray. On it sat a ceramic bowl steaming with hot soup. Felicie's face was arranged into a mask of perfect, gentle concern. Her smile was sweet, but her eyes darted quickly around the room, assessing the situation.

"Oh, Delois, thank goodness you're awake," Felicie cooed, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. She walked to the edge of the bed. "I brought you some hot chicken soup. You need to keep your strength up."

Felicie picked up the spoon and gently blew on the hot liquid, playing the role of the devoted, caring sister-in-law to perfection.

Blanca nodded approvingly. "That's very thoughtful of you, Felicie. Put it on the nightstand."

Delois stared at Felicie's face. The moment she looked at her sister-in-law, the horrific memories from her coma-dream slammed into her brain.

A wave of cold, physical revulsion washed over her. Her skin crawled.

This was the woman who had whispered poison in her ear, encouraging her to chase Julian. This was the woman who had systematically stolen food and money from the Thornton house to give to her own lazy brothers. This was the parasite that had bled their family dry.

Delois's eyes narrowed. The weak, confused girl vanished. Her gaze turned sharp and calculating.

She didn't reach for the bowl. Instead, she stared directly into the soup.

The liquid in the bowl was perfectly clear. A thin layer of grease floated on top, but beneath it, there was nothing but a few sad, bony chicken necks and a single, meatless chicken foot.

Delois's memory was crystal clear. Just yesterday afternoon, she had watched her father, Harding, walk into the kitchen carrying a massive, incredibly fat hen he had bought at the market.

Delois slowly lifted her gaze from the bowl and locked eyes with Felicie.

She widened her eyes, putting on a flawless act of innocent confusion.

"Mama?" Delois asked, her voice loud enough to echo in the quiet room. "I don't understand. Papa brought home that huge, fat hen yesterday. Why is there absolutely no meat in this bowl? Where are the chicken breasts? Where are the thighs?"

Felicie's sweet smile instantly froze. The wooden tray in her hands gave a violent, uncontrollable jerk, sloshing a few drops of hot broth onto the floor.

Felicie's eyes widened in panic. She refused to look at Blanca. She stared at the wall, her breathing suddenly shallow.

"Oh... well," Felicie stammered, her voice high and tight. "You know how it is, Delois. I... I boiled it for a very long time. The meat must have just... melted into the broth. Yes, it just melted off the bones."

Delois felt a cold smirk tug at the corner of her mouth. The lie was so stupid it was insulting. Meat didn't vaporize into clear water.

She threw the heavy quilt off her legs, The time for resting was over.