Chapter 37

THIRTY-SEVEN

Thursday August 5, 2010

I hugged Dolly goodbye, telling her that no young girl her age can see such a brutal death without psychological damage. The psychologist at Three Fates would help her process the trauma.

Speaking the truth—that she killed a woman in cold blood and blamed the murder on her sister—would have resulted in another outpouring of denials. Independent witnesses at school have already confirmed what I know: Dolly has inherited her father’s psychopathic tendencies. This needs to be suppressed before she kills again.

Dolly didn’t respond to my explanation of why she has to go back to Three Fates. She kept her eyes glued to the floor and her fists clenched so tightly that her knuckles turned white. I’ll have to endure her resentment for a short time, but it’s better than being in denial and enabling a potential killer.

Lyle took her, promising to stop for ice cream and fudge brownies. I wanted to accompany her on the drive to Three Fates, but I didn’t have a babysitter for Amy, who still hasn’t left the bathroom since Dolly’s violent outburst.

Hours later, he returned from the long drive, drawn. He said Dolly had another murderous episode in the car that nearly had him driving off the road. He managed to pull over and talk her down by promising she would return as soon as the psychologists deemed her well enough.

Mr. Delta was away on business, but his assistant assured us we’d have daily updates on her status. I asked if we could call her, but Lyle explained that situations as extreme as Dolly’s require a period of no contact during the initial stages of treatment.

If I’m honest with myself, I was a little relieved. I’m still coming to grips with the thought of Dolly being a murderer.

Amy, meanwhile, has reverted to her withdrawn state from when she first returned from Three Fates. She spends hours in the bathroom, and won’t eat unless she’s forced.

I called Dr. Forster’s home and begged his wife to put him on the line. He was furious at me for crossing a boundary, but that’s what he gets for ignoring my calls. I told him we were having a family crisis, but I couldn’t bring myself to reveal the entire truth. He knows about the twins’ violence and the incident that got them both expelled, but I had to keep quiet about the murder.

After warning me never to call him at home again, he asked about Charlotte. She had been the topic of conversation for several sessions. I tried to brush him off, saying that I finally opened my heart to Lyle and spelled out my insecurities of being usurped by a younger woman, but the blasted therapist wanted to know what made the difference.

What does it matter? I asked. Charlotte was fired. Dr. Forster explained that understanding how I convinced Lyle to get rid of Charlotte could help me approach future conflict with my husband.

I told him things between Lyle and me were back to being perfect. He asked how I was coping as a mother, but I had nothing to say. A new baby is a walk in the park compared to my traumatic twins.

The conversation felt more like a game of chess than therapy, so that’s probably the last time I’ll speak with him until Dolly returns. I can’t risk anyone finding out the truth. Even if the authorities won’t punish a mentally ill ten-year-old too severely for killing Charlotte, Lyle won’t get off lightly for concealing a murder.

What does that make him? An accessory? That makes me one, too, for insisting that we didn’t call the police.

Later, I took Heath to the nursery for a change. When I opened his laundry basket, all his little clothes were cut up with scissors. This act of sabotage was the kind of thing Amy would do in retaliation for Dolly’s violence, but I wasn’t about to be fooled.

I couldn’t even muster up the usual anger. Instead, I felt an overwhelming sense of dread.

What kind of girl murders a woman in cold blood, blames her innocent sister, nearly stabs a baby to attack said sister for existing and, when that fails, frames her for slashing the baby’s clothing?

Do I even want her back?

It’s a terrible thing to admit, but I need to think about the well-being and continued survival of my other children. The ones who don’t express their anger with sharp objects.

I showed the basket to Lyle, and he stared at it, speechless. All the color drained from his face, and his features fell into an expression I’d never seen on him before—fear. Fear for our children, fear for us, and fear that Dolly has become a monster.

That night, he worked late in his study. I expect he’s still reeling from the enormity of our daughter’s atrocities. I went to sleep, fully expecting to wake up finding his side of the bed to be empty save for a handwritten note, telling me he can’t cope.

But the next morning, he lay beside me, fast asleep. But when I picked Heath up from his crib, there was a spot of blood on his onesie.