3. the mystery of glaciers

3

THE MYSTERY OF GLACIERS

DAY 6

We aren't allowed to share with other residents why our loved ones shipped us to this place, but I still have a brain.

Callum isn't the only famous person here, and while his presence is a mystery, neither Kinsey Kemper nor Jason Nixon have the luxury of even a sliver of anonymity.

Kinsey is a former teen pop star turned cokehead and viral sex-tape victim. If my limited recollection of trash culture is correct, she's twenty-six or seven, on her third round of treatment for drug addiction and/or plastic surgery addiction and/or sex addiction.

Reports vary, but align in one respect: Kinsey is a train wreck. A living, breathing stereotype of a good girl gone wrong, with dark roots beneath long platinum hair, perfect fake breasts, unnaturally plump lips, and jaded eyes. If she hadn't consistently been a bitch to me since I arrived, I might feel sorry for her.

Jason Nixon—who only answers to Nix—is Kinsey's rehab boy-toy. He's an indie movie star known for his off- the-wall antics, drug use, and run-ins with the law. His angsty persona is almost as canned as Kinsey's sex-vixen one. I'm convinced neither one can find their own consciences, much less authentic personalities.

I'm a bit of a hypocrite, but at least I can admit it.

The final two members of our motley crew are Preston Williams and Tiffany Beauchamp. Preston is a wisp of a man, thin in every way from his face to fingers to lips. He has the most incredible eyes I've ever seen—an undiluted emerald that catches ambient light as well if not better than the actual gemstone.

My guess is he's in his early thirties. By his soft, concise voice and inability to maintain eye contact with anyone for more than a second or two, I figure he makes the big bucks from behind a computer screen. When he shares in group sessions, the predominant themes are isolation and depression. That, coupled with his penchant for long sleeves, have led me to the conclusion that he either practices self-harm or tried to commit suicide.

Unlike Kinsey and Nix, Preston plucks a chord of sympathy inside me. I want to bundle him up and carry him around in my armpit to keep him safe.

"You're heartless."

The snarled words come from Tiffany Beauchamp, our final misfit. She's speaking to me, as I've just told Preston of my impulse to shelter him.

We're working on interpersonal relationships today—our moderator, Frank C., asked us to say something nice to another member of the group. It was the only thing I could come up with .

"How is that heartless?" I ask, mystified.

She rolls her eyes and sniffs, her pert, freckled nose upturned in disdain. "If you don't know, I'm not going to tell you."

Ugh. Such a sanctimonious pain in my ass.

I'm half-convinced Tiffany has multiple personalities; she changes moods more than she changes clothes—which is at least four times a day . No more than eighteen or nineteen, she's petite and cute, with a smile that lights up a room. Right before she sets it on fire.

I imagine her as the daughter of a senator or a billionaire CEO. A debutante drowning in designer duds and fancy cars. Maybe she got a DUI or wrapped her car around a tree. Or maybe she slept with one of her father's friends, or stole her mother's Norcos and accidentally OD'd.

Whatever landed her in this prison for broken people, she's seriously messed up.

I don't feel sorry for her—I feel sorry for Dr. Chastain.

"It's okay," whispers Preston, those beautiful eyes darting to me and away. "Thanks."

I nod, shifting. My skin must be itchy from the chlorine I didn't have time to wash off before group. His gratitude doesn't bother me. It doesn't.

Our moderator Frank, who looks like a tenderhearted biker in his sixties, nods approvingly. "Good sharing, Mia. I like how you really owned your emotion."

I barely stop my eyes from rolling.

"How about you, Kinsey? Can you share something about Mia that you appreciate?"

Here we go .

Kinsey's dark blue eyes latch onto me. Her mouth moves around for a minute, as if dealing with a bad taste. Finally, she grumbles, "She has long legs."

"Oh, Jesus," mutters Callum.

Frank clears his throat. "What about her as a person? Something you appreciate about her personality, or anything else that comes to mind." After a pause, he adds, "Something complimentary."

Kinsey picks at the split ends of her bleached hair. "I guess she, um, seems pretty normal. Like, well adjusted." She looks at me, eyes narrowed and burning. "You're fucking normal. You don't belong here."

I blink, floored.

Seated in the folding chair beside Kinsey, Nix stirs. "Yeah," he seconds.

For a minute, no one speaks. Even Frank looks flummoxed. Finally, he offers, "We all belong here. We are all exactly where we should be."

The itch on my skin is now in my bones. I think of Jameson and his twitching eyelid, and then about our sixteenth birthday party—I gave his best friend of five years a blow job in the garage while everyone ate cake. Jameson blamed his friend, not me. It ruined their relationship.

"I'm a horrible person," I say flatly. "I use people. I eat them up and spit them out. I don't care about anyone. I love my brother, but that's it. Everyone else can burn."

"Tell us how you really feel," murmurs Callum.

I glance at him, an eyebrow raised. "Did you think we were friends? I'm sorry. The only reason I talk to you is because you won't leave me alone. "

Hurt flashes across his face before he turns to look out a window. I don't feel regret.

I don't feel anything.

The door opens. Everyone looks except me. I already know who it is. Some sixth sense warned me of his approach, like an aching joint before a storm.

"Amelia. Come with me."

Someone being pulled from group isn't uncommon. It happens almost every day. We all know Dr. Chastain watches and listens to the afternoon sessions from the sanctuary of his office.

This is the first time I've been summoned, though. I'm kind of proud it's taken almost a full week.

"You got it, boss," I chirp, jumping to my feet.

By the time I reach the doorway, it's empty, Chastain's suited frame dwindling down the hall.

Lengthening shadows creep along the walls as I cross the Fish Tank, vacant but for a staff member watering plants. Outside, the sun hangs low to the west. Atop the smokey blue canvas of the sky are angry streaks of orange and magenta, broken in intervals by gleaming white clouds.

I turn from the sight and walk into the hallway that houses offices, medical exam rooms, and presumably, a security monitoring station. The only room I've been in is the one I now approach, its open doorway a portal of light against a backdrop of shadowed walls.

Pausing on the threshold, I allow myself to feel the hammering of my pulse. I don't want to be here.