Killman Creek (Stillhouse Lake, #2)

by Rachel Caine

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t sleep. When you sleep, you give up the choice to control memory.

I crave safety. And I know that seeking that in the arms of another man—even Sam—is dangerous. My safety has to be found within myself.

You never understand how vulnerable you are in this age of social media until something breaks against you, and then . . . then it’s too late. You can shut down Facebook, Twitter, Instagram; you can change your phone number and your e-mail. Move to new places. But for dedicated tormentors, that isn’t a barrier. It’s a challenge.

It isn’t fair, or right, but it’s dreadfully human, the way we tear each other apart.

“If I’m already dead to the people I love, I might as well die for them.” It’s bleak, and it makes perfect sense to me. I think that for the first time Sam Cade really pities me now, as if I’m broken. But I’m not. I’m forged hard out of pieces, like a bar of solid steel. There’s nothing soft left. I’m too broken to be broken anymore.

But the past never leaves us. It’s in every breath, every cell, every second. I know that now.

Nightmares aren’t frightening once you wake up. Memories are.