Page 31 of The Monster and the Masochist

She’s probably just out getting laid.

Half of me hoped that was true, while the other half hated the thought of Theo being with someone who didn’t understand the level of care she needed. Gritting my teeth, I struggled with the urge to start spamming her phone.

You’re being paranoid, Cassandra. Chill.

After doing one more sweep of her space to make sure I wasn’t missing some vital clue as to where she’d gone, I finally decided to go home.

I would text Cal to let me know when she inevitably came back from whatever one-night stand she was probably indulging in… then maybe this uncomfortable feeling in my chest would finally go away.

Ilost time.

My head was pounding, and my entire face felt swollen and tight from all the tears I must have cried.

I groaned and rolled, feeling confused for a moment that birds were chirping and that I could feel the sun on my face.

What the fuck?

Sitting up and placing a hand to my aching skull, I cracked one eye open and nearly jumped in surprise when I found myself in what looked like a cemetery.

Shit. Not again.

Rubbing my eyes furiously with the palms of my hands, I let out an irritated huff as I took in more of my surroundings.

I’d been passed out on the grass, right in front of my father’s grave.

Hey, Dad. Fancy seeing you here…

My empty fifth of vodka rolled away from me as I shifted more firmly into a sitting position, and my chest tightened with sadness as I realized I was also surrounded by what looked like a handful of Q-Tips.

Fuck.

Definitely still drunk, but not in a good way, I choked on a soft sob and picked up one of the tiny cotton swabs.

Turning to face my dad’s headstone, I placed it carefully on the lip of the grave before resting my forehead on the granite marker.

“It’s not working anymore, Dad,” I whispered.

Of course, he didn’t answer.

I didn’t have the same ability Ryan had to see the dead, and even if I did, Ryan had told me our dad’s ghost was long gone. He’d disappeared after his funeral.

I knew he wasn’t here, but maybe that was why I came here to talk to him all the time.

The dead couldn’t pass judgment or share secrets.

He was the only person I felt safe talking to about any of this with, and a large part of that was because I didn’t want anyone still living to know.

I was ashamed and scared.

If I told anyone, and they said even one thing to confirm my suspicions that what had happened could have been prevented if I’d just made better choices, I wouldn’t survive it.

As an adult, I knew I could have stopped it if I’d told someone.

But if I’d told someone, I would have had to press charges, or make it this big public thing, and then everyone would know.

I would have spent my entire life being known as the girl who got molested, instead of having the freedom to be my own person.

And what if they blamed me?