"What is she to you, Dex?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. No words came.
"Can't answer?" I tilted my head. "That's funny. Because I can."
His face went purple. "She's—she's—"
"Yours?" I finished. "Property? A toy you keep locked upstairs?" My smile widened. "Try again."
He had nothing. No answer to any of the questions. And I knew exactly why he couldn't answer.
Because answering would mean admitting what she really was to him. What he'd really done.
The crowd pressed closer, sensing blood in the water. Phones—those that still worked—recorded everything.
"None of you know who she is," I said, voice carrying across the silent foyer. "She's has a world that is her own world. Her own audience. Not yours. You're just the idiots who partied while she screamed upstairs."
