I figured I could call it a monument. No one ever questioned art.

Gemma’s expression grew sympathetic. “The stain. Did it ever come out?”

Boy, she wasn’t pulling any punches this trip. All the times she’d come over, she never talked about that spot. That stain. The one where my blood and urine had spilled over the sides of the chair as Earl Walker sliced into me with the confidence and precision of a surgeon.

“Intervention time, huh?” I asked, chafing under her scrutiny.

“No,” she said, rushing to placate me. “No, Charley. I’m not trying to control you or take away even an ounce of your autonomy. I just want to try to get you to see what you are doing and why.”

“I know why,” I said, my tone even, my voice dry. “I was there.”

“Okay. But do you understand what you are doing?” She looked around, indicating the stacks and stacks of boxes.

I drew in a deep ration of air, letting my irritation slide through unheeded, then took my cup and headed for my bedroom, the only safe haven I had left at this point. “You could take every single thing out of this room right now, and I would be fine with it.” I waved my hand in the air. “Do you understand that? Peachy as a Georgia plantation.”

“Do you mind if I test that theory?” she asked.

“Knock yourself out.”

As I continued to my room, she walked toward Area 51. I paused and watched as she took a box down and handed it to Uncle Bob. He stacked it on top of the wall Cookie had been working on earlier. And the protective coating around my shell cracked. Just barely. Just enough to cause a quake at the very base of my being.

I knew exactly what was underneath those boxes. If she took away many more of them, the chair I’d been bound to would show through. The bloodstain in the carpet would reappear. The truth would scream in my face. I felt the sting of metal sliding through layers of skin and flesh. Nicking tendons. Severing nerves. Welding my teeth together to keep from crying out.

“Charley?”

Uncle Bob said my name, and I realized I’d been standing there, staring at the mountain of boxes for some time. I looked back embarrassed as everyone waited to see what I would do. The pity in their eyes was almost too much.

“You know,” Cookie said, coming around the breakfast bar, “you are so strong and so powerful, sometimes we forget—” She looked back at Amber, not wanting to give too much away, then she continued, her voice softer. “—sometimes we forget that you’re only human.”

“I won’t ask you to take a box away until you’re ready, Charley,” Gemma said, stepping closer. “But we’ll take one box away from that spot every day until that time comes.”

It was so odd. I’d never been afraid of a chair before—or a stain in the carpet, for that matter—but inanimate objects seemed to take on a life of their own lately. They were beasts, their breaths echoing around me, their eyes watching my every move, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. To cut into me again.

When Gemma spoke this time, her tone was so gentle, so unassuming, I had a hard time holding up my wall. “But only if this is okay with you. Only if you’re comfortable.”

“And if I’m not?”

I wondered if it was wrong of me not to want to deal with anything beyond lethargy at that moment in time. I’d just been robbed blind by a parking attendant, accosted by a demon, manhandled by the son of Satan, and withheld vital information by a group of nuns. I didn’t know how much more of this I could take.

She put a hand on my arm. “Then we’ll be here until you are.”

After offering her an appreciative smile, a horrific thought hit me. “But not, like, literally.”

An idea sparked in Gemma’s eyes. “Yes,” she said, her lips inching into a sly smile. “Literally. We’re going to move in.”

“Oh, can we have a slumber party?” Amber asked.

Gemma beamed at her. “We most definitely can.”

Shit. This was going to suck. Until I let Gemma fondle my boxes, I’d never get any peace.

“Fine, play with my boxes if it makes you feel better.”

“Oh, man,” Amber said. “We never get to have slumber parties.”

I cracked open another smile until Gemma, on a roll, said, “And I’d like you to do one more thing.”

“Soak your contacts in lighter fluid?”

“Now you’re just being hostile. I’d like you to write a letter every day. One a day to whoever comes to mind. It can be a different person every day, or the same person throughout. But I want you to tell that person in the letter how you feel about him or her and something general, like how you’re doing or what you did that day. Okay?”

I took another sip, then asked, “Are you going to read them?”

“Nope.” She crossed her arms in satisfaction. “They are for you and for you alone.”

“Can I write one to Uncle Bob telling him what a geek he is?”

“Hey,” he said, straightening when the attention landed on him. “What’d I do?”

I fought back a giggle. I guess if nobody read them, it’d be okay. I’d had enough psychology to understand what she was doing, but if no one was going to see them, then she’d never know if I wrote them or not. This was clearly a win–win.

“And I’ll know if you’ve written them or not, so don’t make a promise you don’t intend to keep.”