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You would think that being locked away in a mental institution would have hurt my career, but it’s only driven up sales.

I guess when you write a book about your own murderous spree, it makes people more curious about the woman behind the stories. Dead Girls Don’t Lie has been sitting pretty at number one on the bestseller lists since the day it came out last month, something my publisher has been extremely excited about.

Maybe I should be grateful Lauren didn’t drop me like a hot potato after my… let’s call them legal troubles. Or maybe the only reason she didn’t is that she saw how much money Neverland Publishing could make off me. Either way, if it hadn’t been for the lawyers she brought in, I might be spending this Halloween season behind far less forgiving bars. Instead, they managed to negotiate a plea of not criminally responsible by reason of insanity, convincing the prosecution and, ultimately, the judge that I belonged in a psychiatric hospital rather than a prison cell.

Not that it matters much to me.

A cell is a cell is a cell.

Be it padded or lined with iron bars.

My freedom is no longer mine to claim. I made damn sure of that.

“You’re not supposed to ask me for this,” I remind the nurse, brushing my fingertips over the pen name printed on the cover.

Max Usher.

“I know,” she admits sheepishly, glancing over her shoulder a second time just to make sure no one is watching. “But my daughter’s a huge fan, and it’s her birthday next week. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask,” she adds, pulling a pen from her pocket.

I take the pen and flip the book open to the title page.

“What’s your daughter’s name?”

“Emily.”

I scribble a quick dedication, then sign my name beneath it.

“Thank you, Max. You have no idea how happy this is going to make her.” She slips the book back into her pocket, looking thrilled with the gift.

“Can I go outside to the garden and wait for my visitor there?” I ask, seizing the opportunity to cash in on the nurse’s gratitude.

Her lips twitch slightly as she glances toward the window. “I don’t know. It looks like it’s about to rain.”

“I’ll only be a few minutes.”

She takes a beat to think it over, then nods.

“Sure. Why not? Some fresh air will do you good. But only ten minutes, okay?”

“Thanks.”

She gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze before moving on to the next patient.

I’m out of my seat in an instant, making my way toward the glass doors that lead out into the garden.

The moment I step outside, the cool, damp air brushes against my skin, carrying the earthy scent of an approaching storm. The sun has all but disappeared behind a thick blanket of gray clouds, leaving the garden bathed in the dull light of an overcast afternoon.

I follow the paved path toward a wooden bench beneath a large maple tree, the same one I’ve been sitting on nearly every afternoon since my arrival at Springview.

I settle onto the bench, draw my knees to my chest, and wrap my arms around my legs as I listen to the breeze rustle through the leaves.

I turn my attention toward the flower beds, where a small yellow-brown moth flutters from one blossom to the next, apparently unaware that it isn’t a butterfly. I watch it for a while, amused by the way it seems unable to make up its mind, before it abandons the flowers altogether and lands on the bench beside me.

“Well, hello there, little guy,” I whisper, slowly extending my hand toward it.

The moth flutters its wings a few times before climbing onto my outstretched palm. I smile, careful not to move a muscle as it settles there, seemingly content to keep me company.

“Best be on your way,” I murmur after a while. “This is no place for you. Wouldn’t want them clipping your wings, too.”