Amelia doesn’t sit comfortably in the velvet chair this time.
Her back is a straight, rigid line, her hands folded in her lap so tightly that her knuckles have turned a ghostly white. Mrs. H’s office feels colder than it did during her first interview, despite the warm morning light spilling across the expensive rug. The mahogany desk between them looks less like a piece of furniture and more like a fortification—a barrier designed to keep the world’s messiness at bay.
Mrs. H adjusts her glasses, the light catching the frames. “You may start, Amelia.”
Amelia opens her mouth. Nothing comes out.
Her throat tightens, the muscles closing in on themselves as if to protect her from the words she’s forced to speak. She swallows once, then twice, but the story won’t line up in a neat, chro
