"You think I'm attractive?" There it is, the hunger deep in Dee's chest. The big dog inside her that lurches against its leash whenever there's a glimpse of validation past the fence. She immediately hates it; it's weakness. It's desperate vying for approval. He's gotten under her skin in the simplest and crudest way possible. She tries to focus on something else, anything else, even confessing.

Christ, this headache is like coming down from crack. Some lizard-brain part of Dee wants to wiggle out of her skin and slide across the floor to any place she isn't, any place the pain might not be.

"My mother would fuck anyone to get drugs out of them. I don't think I ever knew the bitch without forty Xanax running through her system." She grits her teeth. "Is it fucked up to dig up your dead bitch mother? Because I confess."

She doesn't feel guilty. Maybe other people feel guilty over things, but not Dee. Dee already has felt like people expect her to apologize for the crime of being born all her life, she has no room for remorse. "Your turn."