Chapter 33

THIRTY-THREE

Wednesday August 4, 2010

I didn’t know what the hell to do. The situation was beyond my comprehension. I didn’t know how on earth to make a murder disappear. More importantly, I had no idea how to protect my child from the consequences of actions I instigated.

Lyle stared at me, looking like he’d finally had enough. He knew. Knew that this was down to Giorgi’s tainted genes. Knew that Dolly wasn’t entirely at fault. Knew that Charlotte would still be alive if I had kept MY MOUTH SHUT.

What if those allergic reactions really were psychosomatic? Anything is possible in the realm of pregnancy-induced psychosis. I want to talk to Dr. Forster about it, but he’s still avoiding my calls. Besides, I don’t want to tell him too much and endanger Dolly.

Lyle wanted to call the police. I think it was a knee-jerk reaction due to the years he spent in law enforcement. Dolly wailed the house down, and I screamed at him to stop.

No child of mine would be stuck in an institution. I suffered years of abuse in the foster system. I would burn down the entire street before Dolly endured the same.

When Amy came out with the baby to investigate, it took every ounce of willpower not to scream. She was supposed to be hiding.

Dolly charged across the room with the murder weapon, screeching that this was all Amy’s fault. If Lyle’s reflexes weren’t so fast, Dolly would have stabbed through the baby to get at her sister.

Amy, to her credit, ran back to the master bedroom, slamming two sets of doors for protection. Lyle managed to twist the weapon out of Dolly’s hands and tossed it across the room.

I can’t believe the thoughts that rushed through my head: Lyle’s fingerprints were all over the knife. If he called the police, they would see him as the prime suspect. I could tell the officer he was having an affair with the nanny. That he had poisoned me with allergens so he could fuck a younger woman in the house he shared with his pregnant wife. Men have needs, right?

While waiting for the police, I would order Dolly to stick to the story that she found her beloved nanny dead and woke us up with a scream. I wouldn’t even need to place blood on Lyle’s pajamas—they transferred when he grabbed Dolly.

Without voicing these plans, I asked Lyle to get rid of Charlotte’s corpse. Channeling every bitch I encountered from the mafia, I nod at his bloody hand and let my gaze linger over the blood on his chest. It’s something I picked up from Giorgi, that worthless bastard. He never needed to speak his threats out loud. He’d point out the obvious with his eyes, and everyone would fall in line.

I think I broke my husband that morning. The murder of a relatively innocent woman is hard to bear. Even harder is knowing it was committed by an innocent child. Worst of all is being responsible for its cover-up. What the hell could I do in my condition? I just had major surgery. Technically, I should be on bedrest.

Without touching Dolly, I got her into the family bathroom and told her to scrub herself clean in the shower. The moment I assured her she wasn’t in trouble, the tears stopped. While she was getting clean, I checked up on Lyle, who was in Charlotte’s room, soaking up the blood with my postpartum sanitary pads.

Whatever. We bought them in bulk. I still have enough to last the next few days.

I had to return to the bedroom to feed Heath, who hadn’t stopped crying since Dolly lunged at Amy with the knife. When it took Amy ten solid minutes of persuasion to open the bathroom door, I realized this was the beginning of the end of our family.

The twins won’t get past this. They’ve lost all the progress they made in summer camp and will be back to accusations and tearing each other apart.

That overwhelming feeling of dread returned. I’m surprised my milk didn’t sour at the prospect, but Heath continued to nurse, oblivious to my inner turmoil.

Amy cuddled at my side, trembling, knowing without being told that what happened today would be our ruin.

Fuck it. I need to stop writing for a minute. Lyle is calling for my help.