Page 9 of Claimed By Her Monsters
Chapter Eight
House Rules
Mick spins the die in his palm like a coin. “New rule,” he announces. “Trade a Truth. Buy a property, you owe the table one true thing. Land on someone else’s, you can pay rent or pay truth.”
Alister exhales loudly. “This isn’t therapy.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” I say, pretending I’m not already dying to know what secrets they’ll spill.
Caspian’s mouth twitches. “House approves,” he murmurs, adjusting a crooked coaster. The chandelier gives a tiny, coincidental flicker.
“See?” Mick grins. “Democracy.”
“Fine,” Alister says, gesturing at me. “New blood goes first.”
“Nothing like light hazing to build trust.” I roll my eyes and the dice. Eight. I land on Vermont Avenue. “Buy,” I say, because it’s my favorite color, blue.
“Truth,” Alister prompts.
“I’ve memorized almost every Emily Dickinson poem and read most of her letters.” The words come out prouder than I expect, which is weird; in my old circle of friends, pre–foster care, I never would’ve admitted that. Half of them thought Emily Dickinson was a brand of scented candle.
“Why her?” Caspian asks.
I shrug, shyness sneaking back in. “She talks a lot about love, heartbreak, death. Relatable topics.” I straighten. “Did you know she spent Sundays writing letters? Tens of thousands. Can you imagine? My hand would cramp by noon.”
“That’s how it used to be,” Alister says, preening. “I have excellent handwriting.” He flips Caspian’s sketch pad to him, blank side up. With a ridiculous flourish, he scrawls in looping cursive:Alister Crane, Esquire.
I lean in and whistle. “Wow. A-plus in Penmanship and Pretension.”
A real smile, one of the rare ones, tugs at his mouth, and my heart does a stupid skip.
“Esquire? Are you a lawyer?” I ask.
“Among other things,” he answers vaguely.
“Lawyer, doctor. Alister likes to collect degrees the same way some people collect stamps,” Mick interjects. “He’s got A through Z behind his name.”
“Hey,” protests Alister. “I’m a lifelong learner. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Oh yeah?” Mick cocks his head and gives Alister a knowing look. “Because you really needed that tax accountant title.”
Alister huffs and gives a dismissive wave.
“Which is your favorite Emily Dickinson quote?” asks Caspian, and all their heads swing my way. It’s hard not to bask in it, their attention. The feeling of all their eyes focused on me like I matter.
I think for a minute. “I like how she once said, ‘My friends are my estate.’ That was in a letter she wrote. I like the idea, that people can be your home. The thing you value the most.” My shoulders droop, and my throat tightens. “I thought I had that once. True friends. But they stoppedshowing up after the first foster home. I get that we were barely sixteen, but still.”
A sad, weighted silence falls.
Mick leans over and rests his hand on mine. “You were all young, Maddie. Give them, and yourself, some grace.”
“Yeah,” I sniffle. Then, needing to collect myself, I point to the board and tell Mick, “Your turn.”
Mick gives me an understanding nod. He rolls, lands on Reading Railroad. “Buy. Truth. My da built our house with his own two hands. He said you measure a man by what he makes that outlives him.”
Alister hums approval at that, then rolls a five, lands on Income Tax, and peels off bills with fussy precision. “I refuse to pay a truth to the government,” he says dryly, passing the dice.
Caspian rolls a four, draws Community Chest. “Bank error in your favor,” he reads, then hesitates. “Truth anyway.” He taps a small nick in the table’s edge. “I carved that when I was a teenager. Thought vandalism would make me unforgettable.” He smiles, a little crooked. “Turns out it just makes the furniture sad.”
