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just raw, red skin as though she just raked her nails over them. They’re on her arms, too, along with the easily identifiable crescent-moon marks of nails being dug into tender skin.
    “Evie,” I breathe slowly. “What are you doing to yourself?”
    She still doesn’t answer and I suddenly understand why every time I’ve seen her the past month, she’s been wearing jeans or long pants, long sleeved shirts or sweaters, even in the warm summer time. She’s been hiding. Hiding all the damage that she’s been doing to herself.
    “Why?” I demand, and advance on her a few steps. “Why are you doing this?”
    The instant I move toward her, Evie’s body tenses and she pulls herself into a half-standing position, still leaning heavily against the desk as she cradles her cut arm to her chest and glares at me. Her face is dark, almost foreign; scary, I realize with a small shiver.
    “You weren’t supposed to be here,” she says, her voice wheezing. “No one is supposed to be home.”
    “That makes this okay, then!” I cry out sarcastically, feeling hysterical. I force myself to calm down, count to ten or some shit because I don’t want to scare her into shutting down completely. “Evie, why are you doing this? Tell me what’s going on.”
    “Like you care,” she mutters, and my eyes bulge.
    “You’re slicing your arm open, of course I care!” I shout, and I’m so full of nervous adrenaline that I have to start pacing.
    “You don’t,” Evie says flatly, emotionlessly. “No one cares. I tried to talk to you.”
    Guilt, immediate and consummate, fills me at her words. She did try, that first day when I was forced to come back here after Dr. Parker’s death. She came flying out to the backyard and I told her to get away from me. I’d seen the stricken look on her face, as though I’d kicked her, and I still turned away. If I’d guessed she was sinking this deep I never would have turned her away.
    Or maybe I would have. It occurs to me that I’m no better at facing my demons than Evie is, that I’m barely coping myself. But at least I haven’t descended to the point where I’m doing myself—or anyone else, for that matter—bodily harm.
    “ Why ?” I demand again, more forcefully this time.
    With a grunt of effort, Evie pushes away from the desk and stands on her own two feet, though she wobbles a little bit. Cradling her arm, she looks at me through her tangled curtain of hair, her eyes seeming lighter and more ghostlike than ever, as though she’s floating away, no longer present in her own body.
    “Get out,” is all she says, and it takes extreme effort not to reach out and grab her, shake her into telling me.
    “Evie,” I begin warningly.
    “GET OUT!” she screams, pointing at the open door.
    I look between Evie and the door, hesitating. I can’t leave her like this. I can’t do it. I have a burning need to get to the root of the issue, to find out what the problem is and why she’s doing this to herself, but the way her hand is trembling and the empty look in her eyes tells me that right now is not the time. I know better than anyone that sometimes space is needed, distance and separation.
    I do the only thing that seems acceptable; I leave. But just for extra insurance, I scoop the knife up off the floor as I pass by, not able to leave the disgusting thing in the same room as Evie. I know it’s stupid, that she can cut herself with any knife and I should really raid the kitchen, not the stupid office, but it gives me a small measure of peace to take it with me. The instant I’m out in the hallway, the door slams closed behind me and I hear the decisive click of a lock being turned.
    I stand staring at it for a long time, listening, thinking, wondering. There’s absolutely no sound, as though Evie knows I’m still out here on the other side. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I turn and leave the house, throwing the knife into a dumpster on my walk home. But even three