Mable gasps, all color draining from her face.

I feel like Sandra just punched me in the stomach.

“Mom!” Pixie looks humiliated.

“Well, it’s the truth, Sarah!” she says. “You’re only half-pretty to begin with, but with that giant scar through your skin—and across your chest, no less—it’s just… well, repulsive.”

All feeling drains from my fingertips as I stand frozen by the counter. I can’t breathe. I’m torn between wanting to kill myself and wanting to kill Sandra Marshall.

I might do both.

“You hush your mouth, Sandy,” Mable says. “That’s no way to speak to your beautiful baby girl.”

Pixie looks like she’s going to cry, and my decision is made. I’m going to kill her mother first, then myself.

Sandra rolls her eyes. “Oh now, Sarah, don’t get emotional.”

“You need to leave, Sandra,” I say. And I call her Sandra because formalities are way the fuck over.

She whips her eyes to me. “I’m not going to take orders from the janitor.”

“Then the janitor will be escorting you out,” I say.

“Mom, can you just go?” Pixie’s voice sounds small, and I hate the defeat I hear in it.

Sandra looks appalled. “And leave you here with this”—she looks me up and down like I’m a criminal—“filthy, despicable, sister-killing boy?”

And that’s the end of any strength I had. Sandra played the Charity card, and all the oxygen has officially left my lungs.

“You are a horrid woman,” Pixie says, straightening her shoulders. “You are truly awful, and I hate that we share DNA.” She points to the dining room door. “Leave.”

“But we haven’t even had dinner.”

“You didn’t come for dinner. You came to be a bitch and remind me how very worthless I am. And you know what? Mission accomplished.” Pixie throws the rolling pin down. “I’m ugly. I’m scarred. I’m worthless. Whatever.” Her eyes harden. “I might be all of those things, but you know what I’ll never be?” She pauses. “You.”

She’s more confident than I’ve ever seen her before, and I’m so proud.

“And you,” Pixie continues, “are the ugliest thing in this room.”

So fucking proud.

Sandra runs cool eyes over her daughter, looking her down in condescension, and mutters, “I knew I should have had an abortion.” Then she turns and walks out of the kitchen.

I start to follow after her, but Pixie’s voice stops me.

“Leaves, no.”

Leaves. She called me Leaves.

My heart is pounding, my palms are sweating, and my soul is screaming to run after Sandra and hurt her for all the hurt she’s done to Pixie.

But Leaves…

Leaves stops me in my tracks.

I look at Pixie and she shakes her head. “I just want her gone, okay? Just let her go.” She looks exhausted.

I nod once and watch as Pixie takes off her apron, hangs it on the hook, and exits the kitchen. I stand there for a long time, trying to figure out what to do with all the rage inside me. I’m so angry. Angry that Sandra put so many emotional scars on Pixie and angry that I went and put a physical one on her too.

When I finally move from the kitchen, I travel up the east wing stairs only to find Pixie seated at the top, like maybe she was trying to run away from everything but got discouraged and just sat down where she was.

I slowly climb the stairs and stop a few steps from her. “Your mom’s a piece of work.”

She nods. “My mom’s a bitch.”

“Yep.” It’s awkward for a moment, and I’m not sure if I should go to my room or stay where I am. But something about leaving Pixie feels… wrong, so I shove my hands in my pockets and stand still for a moment. “I’ve never seen you stand up to her like that before.”

She sweeps a loose hair back from her face. “Yeah, well. I don’t live with her anymore, so it’s not like I’ll have repercussions for days and days.”

I nod. I look to the side.

She looks at her shoes.

“I’m proud of you.” The words fall out of my mouth.

Pixie looks up and gives me a small smile, which just encourages my mouth to keep moving.

“You were pretty kick-ass back there,” I say.

Her smile grows, and something inside me warms.

“Nineteen years too late, I guess,” she says.

“No,” I say quietly. “Never too late to be brave.”

She rubs her hands over her face, and I have this overwhelming urge to sit down beside her and wrap an arm around her. I used to do things like that all the time. It used to be so natural for me. For us.

She glances at me and wrinkles her brow. “What my mom said, about my scar—”

I start shaking my head, panic and fear racing through my veins. “She was right.”

Pixie looks like I just slapped her. “About it making my body repulsive?”

“What? No! God, no!” I want to kill Sandra all over again. “No. She was right when she said it was my fault. I’m the reason you almost died—”

“No, you’re not.” She looks confused.

“And I’m the reason Charity died.”

“What?” She blinks. “Levi… what? Are you insane? A truck driver named Joe Willis who feel asleep at the wheel is the reason Charity died. The accident wasn’t your fault.” She looks baffled and raises her voice a notch. “And if anyone else is to blame for that night, it’s me. I’m the one who decided we should drive home drunk.”

“But I messed with fate, Pix. I basically forced the two of you to pull over, and then I drove you straight to death—”

“You were trying to protect us!”

“Yeah?” I’m yelling now. “And how’d that work out? Did I protect Charity? Did I protect YOU?!” My voice echoes up and down the east wing and my eyes start to burn.

It’s so silent I can hear the beating of my heart and the very shallow breath Pixie just took. Her face is stunned.

My chest aches. My chest aches so much.

I head to my room and slam the door behind me.

I feel like a ton of bricks just hit me.

Levi doesn’t just mourn the loss of Charity; he blames himself. The idiot actually blames himself. Just like me.

God, we’re a mess.

I don’t have any words for the emptiness inside me, and my feet feel like cement blocks, holding me in place as I stare at the floor. Turns out Levi has some monsters of his own, and I don’t know how to be his hero.

The dam broke. The dam of tucked-away guilt Pixie and I had so carefully constructed over the past year split down the middle once Charity’s name was mentioned, and now the inn is flooded with denial.

I can’t look Pixie in the eyes. I don’t want to know she’s there or see my pain reflected in her gaze. I don’t want to feel emotionally transparent in her presence or helplessly heavy in her sadness. So for the next few days, I act completely cordial in her company.

Any and all conversations we have are business related and robotic, and my eyes never go beyond the surface when they meet hers.

Stoic, that’s what I am. Because anything else would force me to acknowledge the fact that Pixie feels guilty for Charity just like I do and that she might be broken inside just like I am.

So I hold the lobby door open when Pix and I reach it at the same time, and I say hello when I pass her in the hall, and I do these things with empty eyes and a hollow heart.

I don’t feel a thing. It’s safer that way.

The clicking of high-heeled shoes meets my ears as I spray glass cleaner onto a soft rag. Ellen is soon standing beside me, watching as I climb up the crappy inn ladder to reach a dirty window above me.