My name is not Mara Dyer, but my lawyer told me I had to choose something. A pseudonym. A nom de plume, for all of us studying for the SATs. I know that having a fake name is strange, but trust me-it's the most normal thing about my life right now. Even telling you this much probably isn't smart. But without my big mouth, no one would know that a seventeen-year-old who likes Death Cab for Cutie was responsible for the murders. No one would know that somewhere out there is a B student with a body count. And it's important that you know, so you're not next.

You can't be fixed. You can't be saved.

Thinking something does not make it true. Wanting something does not make it real.

But when everyone tells you you're crazy and no one believes you when you swear you aren't, a small part of you will always wonder if they're right.

Sometimes, the biggest secrets you can only tell a stranger.

I was going to kiss him, and I was going to regret it. But at that moment, I couldn't bring myself to care.

I feel something, I do it. I want something, I take it.