This deleted scene from TMI takes place just before Chapter 4. 

Chase hopped the fence that separated their houses and crossed the backyard with a long stride, happy for a chance to take Meg out for a burger. The grin was already lifting his lips when he heard her screams.

He broke into a run, ready to break through the sliding glass doors at the back of the house to save Meg from whatever horror she'd met.

He hadn’t expected it to be an innocent piece of paper.

He stood frozen at her back door, his hands clenched in useless fists, watching her stab the paper – over and over again - her face twisted in fury. No, he amended when she finally noticed him, not fury.

Pain.

Tearing at her with jagged claws and vicious teeth.

She dropped the knife, shoved the door open, stood in the frame. "What are you doing here?" Her voice was raw.

He swallowed and forced his arms not to grab her in a protective hug. "Um. Do you need a lift to the theater? I thought we could grab a burger or, you know— " He trailed off.

She looked uncomfortable, looked at the sandwich on the counter and finally sighed. "Yeah." She blinked. "Yeah. Thanks."

Chase couldn't stand seeing the hurt in her brown eyes. He stepped over the threshold and tugged her close to his chest. For a moment, she surrendered and allowed him to hold her. When he felt her arms come up, he stopped breathing. He waited one second, then two, but her hands never hugged back. Instead, her muscles tensed and she stepped back, her face set in that tough girl expression she wore like other girls wore make-up. She bent to clean up the pieces of paper from the floor.

Chase knelt to help. The paper Meg murdered was a picture of her dad. Her dead dad. "Jesus, Megan. What the hell?” He asked with wide eyes.

She shot up like an arrow and stalked from the room. He wanted to follow, even thought about it. But she wouldn’t have run if she was comfortable, so he finished cleaning up, dumping the bits and pieces into the trash. The room was shabby — but clean. There weren’t any personal touches — no crayon pictures stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet, no school notices tacked to the walls, no piles of mail. Just the sandwich she’d made from the dregs of the bread bag, a pot of stale coffee sitting in the machine, and a pile of picture crumbs in the trash and a single painting — unframed — on the wall behind the table.

He moved closer to study it. It was a landscape at night — wait. It was the backyard he’d just cut through. In the background, a single light in a second floor window made him smile. It was his house, his room that she’d painted. Damn, she was so good.

His smile faded when he heard her footsteps pacing in the next room. No, he amended with an eye roll. Stomping. She’d been stabbing her dead father and screaming like a wounded animal. He tried to imagine hating his dad as much as Meg hated hers.

He couldn't.

With a sigh, he slid the glass doors closed and locked them. He unplugged the coffee maker, wrapped the sandwich she'd left on the counter with the plastic wrap he found in a drawer and went after her. He found her in the living room, tying her black tennis shoes.

"Um. I wrapped up your sandwich. You ready?"

Meg took the wrapped sandwich without looking at him. "Yeah. Thanks."

"No problem." He shrugged. And then he braced himself. "Why are you so mad at your dad?"

She scowled and rolled her eyes, like the answer was so obvious. "Because he left."

Chase shook his head, reached for her again. "Megan, he died. I know you miss him but-"

She slapped his hand away. "I'm fine. Look, I'm just gonna walk. Thanks for — just thanks." She jerked open the front door and bolted out.

Chase gaped after her for a second but the way her voice broke forced him to follow. He slammed her front door on his way out. "Wait up." He called.

Meg's long legs ate up the street. She never slowed. Chase broke into a jog, caught up to her and with an arm on her elbow, spun her around to face him. "Damn it, Megan, I said wait."

She wouldn't look at him. She stepped around him. "I'm gonna be late."

Jesus, was there anybody on earth more stubborn than this girl? "Talk to me, Megan. We're friends. You can trust me."

“Trust you?” She laughed once, a yeah-right laugh. "You're a guy."

The words weren't what made him step back like he’d been hit; it was the bitterness.

"Megan, come on. You've known me since we're eleven years old. When I have ever let you down? Just talk to me. Tell me what's wrong."

She looked up at him and for a second, Chase saw a flicker of desperation in her bottomless brown eyes. He reached out to —

"Meg! Chase! Hey, guys!"

Chase spun around, saw Bailey jogging over to them and groaned. Great timing. When he turned back to Megan, her eyes had gone hard and flat again.

The moment was gone.