I had to turn away.
Daniel Pierce, now mostly retired, stood beside me.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“No.”
He smiled.
“Better answer.”
I looked around.
The house Trevor believed proved his power belonged to strangers now.
Good strangers.
Temporary ones.
Nobody worshipped the marble.
Nobody cared what the chandelier cost.
They cared about signatures.
Choices.
Ownership.
Permission.
I touched the locket at my throat.
Then thought about the night everything began.
Thirty blows.
I counted every one.
For years afterward, people asked why.
Why didn't you call police immediately?
Why did you leave quietly?
Why count?
I didn't understand it then.
Now I do.
Counting was the first thing I controlled.
He could choose to strike.
I could choose to remember.
One.
Two.
Three.
All the way to thirty.
But my life did not stop counting there.
Thirty-one:
I called Daniel.
Thirty-two:
I sold the house.
Thirty-three:
I reported the assault.
