Page 8 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 stopped showing 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.”

I snort. My next card is Go to Jail. “Typical,” I mutter.

Alister lifts a Get Out of Jail Free card like a magician producing a dove. “I happen to possess your freedom. What’s it worth?”

“Name it.”

“A second truth. No lies.”

I wet my lips. “I keep a go-bag under every bed I sleep in. Even if it’s just a plastic grocery sack.

Water, socks, granola bar. I’m nervous right now because my back isn’t against a wall.

I need to see what’s coming at me. I know that’s paranoid, and I try to use logic to drown the fear, but… it swims.”

As one, the men exhale a sad sigh. Alister looks like he wants to say something, but like upstairs when he fed me soup, he seems to think better of it. Instead, he slides me the card like it’s his way of saying sorry.

“Roll.”

We loop the board. Caspian buys Water Works.

“Truth,” Mick says, pointing his lime-sugared rim at him.

“I practiced piano scales in this house until my fingers bled,” Caspian says. He glances toward the hall. “I’ll play for you someday, Maddie. I can even compose a song for you, if you’d like that.”

“I would,” I say, nodding, touched he'd do that for me.

Mick lands on my Vermont, groans, and pays rent. “Fine. Truth.” He taps his chin. “I miss fighting. Never felt more alive than when a weapon was in my hand.”

"You were terrifying back then," Alister says, voice low. "Covered in blood, grinning like a lunatic."

Mick’s scarred hand stills. Their eyes lock, something electric passing between them.

“Okay,” I say, too brightly, shifting in my seat. “That’s enough brooding war poetry for one turn. Whose roll is it?” I nudge the dice toward Caspin.

Mick refills my glass.

Alister buys Park Place, and we all boo.

“Truth,” I demand.

He aligns the deed neatly under his property. “I’ve done things I can’t undo,” he says, voice even but not steady. “I’m not sure atonement is…possible. I try anyway.” He glances at Mick like there’s a lifetime of conversation in the look.

“You’re too hard on yourself,” Mick tells him.

Caspian rolls onto my other light blue and doesn’t bargain. “May I pay truth?” He clears his throat. “I’m terrible at finishing things. Sketchbooks, mostly.” He lifts his charcoal-stained fingers. “Start a hundred, complete none.”

“At least you start,” I say, and he ducks his head with a bashful smile.

The storm pats the windows like curious fingers. We keep going.

Mick buys St. James Place. “Truth. My kid brother’s name is Aidan, and I miss him terribly. The longer I stay away from the Highlands, the more I forget who I am.” He flips his phone face down, like he wants to call home right now but is stopping himself.

I land on Luxury Tax and declare capitalism canceled. Alister actually huffs a laugh.

Caspian perches his token on the Just Visiting bench like it’s tired. “Truth,” he offers softly. “I like cupcakes better than cake. I think they taste different, even if the batter is the same.”

“Me too,” I exclaim, surprised. I thought I was the only one.

We round again. I pay Alister rent three times and sulk about it. My next roll lands on Free Parking.

“House rule,” I declare. “Camp here and you get to ask the question.”

“Dangerous,” Alister murmurs. “Proceed.”

“What do you want more than anything? No ‘world peace.’ Selfish version.”

Mick answers first. “A kitchen table full every Sunday. People who forget to wipe their boots because they’re too busy talking.”

Caspian studies the grain of the table. “To push past my comfort zone. Just once.”

Alister steeples his fingers. “To be at peace with myself,” he says finally. “And with everyone I love.”

I pick at the edge of my property card. “To feel safe and not mistake it for boredom.”

Caspian nods once, eyes thoughtful.

Mick presses his thumb to the edge of his drink, then says, almost too softly, “Good one.”

The game continues. We talk and laugh until truth doesn’t need a rule, it flows naturally. The chandelier hums. The fire purrs. The storm echoes around us. We play on until the only thing that matters is whether I can get from Marvin Gardens to Go without paying Alister another dime.