I had dinner with my parents that night, frozen chicken fingers with frozen broccoli, which I ate without comment, knowing they could tell something was wrong, sure neither would have the nerve to ask. My father assumed everything was about him, that if he pushed too hard I'd tattle to my mother. As if I cared, anymore, what he'd been doing with Lacey; as if he could be anything to Lacey but a distraction, a horsefly buzzing at a stallion. What we had together was too big for distractions-I finally understood that. He would never understand, and maybe it was a mercy that he would never realize how much he didn't. My mother, maybe, had a better guess, but she wouldn't push it, either. I missed her, sometimes, the long-ago mother who was still bold enough to say, Tell me where it hurts, but maybe I'd only imagined her along with the faeries who'd once lived in the hedges and the monsters snoring under my bed.

I should have hated them both, I thought, for failing. Then I should have forgiven them, for trying. But I couldn't be bothered. They were cardboard cutouts, Peanuts parents wah-wah-wahhing in the background, and I couldn't feel anything for them anymore. I couldn't feel anything but hands on my body. Strangers' fingers. Strangers' tongues. I couldn't stop feeling that.

I brought the knife into the woods because I knew it was safe. Because I knew I would never use it the way it was meant to be used-I wasn't the kind of girl who would do a thing like that. However much I might have wished otherwise.

I SHOWED NIKKI THE KNIFE. I said, "Take off your clothes."

"Why?"

"You don't get to ask that anymore."

"You want to see me naked? Fine. Whatever. I always figured you were a little gay. You and Lacey both, with your perverted little-"

"Shut up. Take off your shirt, take off your pants, and toss them out the door."

Miraculously, she did. I felt a rush of something-power, euphoria, satisfaction, maybe the simple wonder of speaking a command and seeing the world comply. There was something godlike about it: Let there be obedience, let there be fear.

I watched her strip down to her pink-laced panties. I closed her into the dark, slipped the dead bolt, and listened to her scream. I stood in the night, quiet and still, breathing and listening, palm pressed to the boxcar, picturing her on the other side, alone and naked in the dark with the pig's blood and the death metal, her screams bouncing off the metal walls until her throat burned. Nikki, helpless and afraid, cringing from things creeping through the dark, holding on until she had no choice but to let go, and break.

Then I pulled myself away and went in search of Lacey, to make my offering.

LACEY SAID WE SHOULD TIE her up, so we tied her up. Or, rather, Lacey did, and I held onto the knife.

Lacey, Lacey, Lacey-she was back. It was hard to concentrate with her name singing through my head. All I wanted to do was cling to her, whisper apologies, make her promise all over again never to let me go.

But first I had to prove myself. So I held the blade steady while Lacey brought Nikki's pale wrists together behind her back, wrapping them tight with the extra laces she had in her trunk. She had everything in her trunk. The laces were strong, made for combat, and Lacey bound Nikki's waist and ankles to a rotting old chair she'd found in the station, using more laces and a bunch of leggings. This is a handcuff knot, Lacey said, twisting in elaborate loops, this is a clove hitch and this is a butterfly, and these knots will hold, Lacey said, inexplicably certain, and even if they didn't, we still had the knife.

Once Nikki was bound up tight, Lacey held out her hand to me, palm up. She didn't have to ask: I gave her the knife, and only after it was gone did I feel like I'd given up something that mattered.

"I have to pee," Nikki said, like pulling out a trump card.

Lacey patted her head. "Go for it."

Nikki spit at her face, and Lacey laughed when she missed. I laughed, too, until the smell hit me, and the flashlight exposed the dark patch spreading across Nikki's lace panties. I expected her to look pleased that she'd called Lacey's bluff, but she just looked like a girl who'd peed her pants and was trying not to cry.

I thought about stopping it, then.

A helpless girl, naked, tied to a chair in a dirty train car with satanic scribbles on the wall. Two wild-eyed girls looming over her, one of them holding a butcher knife. I saw it like I was seeing it onscreen, prom queen brought low, soon to have her throat slashed by monsters of her own creation, audience rooting neither for hero nor villain but only for gore. I saw the Hollywood vision but smelled the urine, half a scent away from comforting, and when I did, the girl wasn't Nikki Drummond but any girl, sorry and afraid, and if I'd been in the audience, I would have wanted her saved.

THIS IS REAL, I THOUGHT. But many things were real. Foggy memories of hands on skin were real. Evidence captured on videotape was real. The swooping lines of black permanent marker I'd scrubbed off my skin, the taste of puke and stranger I'd brushed out of my mouth, the creeping fingers doing exactly as Nikki commanded. Real, real, real.

Surfaces were deceptive. Nikki had taught me that better than anyone. The trappings of evil were for scary movies and school assemblies; the real devil wore pink and smiled with pastel lips. And here, in the dark, we all knew who she was.

"Don't think we're going to feel sorry for you," Lacey said, and she was right.

Real was the hollow space Lacey had left behind, and the lies Nikki had told me in her wake. I'd believed the witch, let her put a curse on Lacey. All those days and weeks she'd spent sleeping in her car. While I was slurping frozen yogurt at the mall and debating whether Aladdin could be fuckable even if he was a cartoon, Lacey had been alone. Because I left her that way; because Nikki had made me.

"I'm thirsty," she said.

Lacey snorted. "You're kidding, right?"

"I've been here for fucking ever!" Nikki shouted. "And I'm thirsty."

"Idea," Lacey said brightly. Lacey loved an idea. "Dex, go get that bucket we saw outside."

I set the bucket before her. It was corroded by what seemed like centuries of rust, filled almost to the brim with brackish rainwater.

Nikki shook her head. "No."

"You're thirsty, right?" Knife in hand, Lacey grabbed her hair and yanked her forward, hard enough that she toppled, chair and all, onto her knees, until her lips were nearly on the bucket rim. "Don't you want a drink?"

"Let go." It was a whisper. "Please don't make me."

"So picky," Lacey said.

Together, we righted her; she was heavy, but she wasn't fighting us anymore. That made it easier.

"You realize this is kidnapping, right?" All the trembly vulnerability was gone from her voice, nothing left beneath the flab but hard, pearly bone. "You're going to be in huge trouble when you let me out of here."

"You're not giving us much incentive," Lacey said.

"What are you going to do, kill me?"

"It's so cute when you pretend to be fearless." Lacey turned to me. "Dex thinks you'll never tell. She thinks you'll be too piss-scared of what people would think. Look how well she knows you."

"Better than she knows you. Not as well as I do."

Lacey closed in. I held the flashlight steady. The beam glinted off the blade.

"I want you to tell her what you did," Lacey said.

Nikki tried to laugh. "I really don't think you do."

"At that stupid party. You tell her what you did, and you apologize."

"How much is that going to mean, Hannah? You going to believe I'm sorry with a knife to my throat?"

The knife wasn't at her throat.

And then it was.

"Lacey," I said.

"It's fine."

It was fine.

"Tell her," Lacey said. "Tell me. Let's hear your confession."

When Nikki swallowed, her throat bulged against the knife. "You want me to talk, step back," she said, barely moving her lips. Keeping her head very, very still.

"I want you to talk carefully," Lacey said.

Nikki swallowed again. "We were just having fun. You remember fun, don't you, Lacey?"

Lacey kept her gaze on Nikki. "Did you have fun at that party, Dex?"

"No, I did not." I'd brought along a bottle of my parents' scotch, for courage, like they said in the movies, and now I took a burning swig. It was cold outside but hot in our boxcar, or I was hot, at least. Fizzing and tingling. Fire licking my throat.

"You let her drink too much," Lacey said.

"She's a grown-up."

"You let her drink too much, and she passed out, and when she did . . ."

Nikki didn't say anything.

I didn't see Lacey's hand move, but Nikki moaned. Then, "When she did, we had a little fun, like I said."

"You took off her clothes."

"I guess."

"You let your idiot friends touch her."

"Yeah."

"Feel her up."

"Yeah."

"Fuck her."

"Lacey-" I said. "Don't."

I wanted to know; I didn't want to know; I couldn't know.

I drank more.

"No," Nikki said. "I'm not a fucking sociopath. Unlike some people."

"Just a perv," Lacey said, "who filmed the whole thing on her daddy's camera. Tell us how you made them pose her. That's still assault, you realize that, right? That's still called rape."

"Stop," I said.

"I never touched her," Nikki said.

"Of course not," Lacey said. "Not yourself. You don't get your hands dirty. You just make things happen."

"Enough," I said. Too much.

"It was harmless," Nikki said. "Look, it was stupid, I know. I'm a bitch, I know. But it was harmless."

That word. That she could say it. Harmless. It erased me from the picture. Without me, there was no one to be harmed.

"She wants to hear you say you're sorry," Lacey said. "And I suggest you try to sound like you mean it."

I never loved anyone the way I loved Lacey that night. She was like a wild thing, a storm in a bottle, so much rage compressed into a tiny black-eyed body and channeled in my defense. It was glorious. Like watching a sunrise, blazing Crayola pinks birthing a new world, meant only for me.

"I'm sorry," Nikki said, quietly. "And for what it's worth, that's actually true. I am sorry, Hannah."

"Her name is Dex."

"Uh-huh."

"Say it."

"I'm sorry," she said. "Dex."

"You buy that, Dex?" She didn't ask whether it made anything better. What made it better was forcing Nikki to admit what she'd done. And knowing I had the power to make her suffer for it.

I wasn't supposed to be that kind of person. I was a good girl, and good girls weren't supposed to take pleasure in pain. But I did, and I found there was no shame in it.

"I wish everyone could hear what kind of person she really was," I said. "Imagine if they knew."

"They know," Lacey said. "They just don't give a shit."

But they didn't know. It wasn't just Nikki's parents who were fooled, the gullible teachers and women at her church, the kids on the outer fringes who looked unto her as a god. It was her own: They knew she was a carnivore, but didn't understand she was a cannibal. They didn't know how many of their boyfriends she'd screwed, how many of their hearts she'd contrived to break, how many of their secrets she'd handed to me, how many of them she'd hurt just because she was bored, just because she could. There was no leverage in me knowing that-no use in threatening to expose her. She didn't care about them, wouldn't care about alienating them and being left alone; that wasn't what appealed to me about forcing her to confess. It was the prospect of forcing her to do what I wanted. Anything I wanted: Nikki stripped bare, limp and helpless, a marionette under our control.

I knew, when we let her out, that we would be safe. She would keep quiet-not to save herself the embarrassment but to save herself the pity. If I could bend her to my will, force her to speak the words I put in her mouth-if she was powerless, and admitted it-then a part of her would always be powerless. Nikki would never tell anyone what happened here, because if she did, it would mean a part of her never left.

It was my idea first, but Lacey was the one who remembered the Barbie tape recorder, and the stack of cassette tapes, and understood what they could mean. What we did next, we did together.

"You're going to tell us everything," Lacey said when we'd trekked back to the car and retrieved the equipment, once Nikki had come down from being left once again to scream and weep alone in the dark. "Everything terrible you've done, from start to finish. And maybe we'll play it for the world to hear, or maybe we'll just keep it for ourselves, for insurance. You'll never know."

"Think of it as a confessional," I said. "Good practice for your audition tape."

"Why would I ever do that?" It was almost impressive, this skinny, stripped-down girl pretending at defiance. "Because of your stupid knife? What are you going to do, murder me and bury me in the woods?"

"I'm surprised you think that's beyond me," Lacey said, but when Nikki held her gaze, Lacey was the one to look away first.

"I'm not doing it," Nikki said. "You can keep me here as long as you want, but you can't make me do anything. You can't."

"I don't know about that." Lacey toed the bucket of water, then bumped shoulders with me. I'd thought we would never do that again, never be so perfectly in sync that we could speak with our bodies instead of our words. "What is it they say about me at school, Dex? Don't they think I'm some kind of witch?"

"I've heard that," I said.

"Me, I think Nikki's the witch."