Chapter 39

THIRTY-NINE

Tuesday August 10, 2010

It’s been a few days since I last wrote. My head hasn’t been right since I saw that blood on my baby. Lyle says it was probably Charlotte’s. According to him, murder scenes aren’t just restricted to the room where the victim died. A perpetrator can carry traces of their crime around the house, leaving them in the most unlikely spots.

I wasn’t convinced, but then, I didn’t stand over Dolly when she showered or track her movements after she left the bathroom. She could have left the blood there when she sliced apart the contents of Heath’s laundry basket.

Lyle had the nerve to stare at me like I was being unreasonable for doubting his forensic expertise. I get that he’s a former FBI agent and therefore all-knowing, but sometimes I hate the way he dismisses my concerns as if I’m a paranoid over-thinker with an overactive imagination.

Our nanny is dead. Murdered by a little girl who tried to knife her twin sister, not caring that she was holding an infant. Yes, I know I’m spiraling but THAT ISN’T THE KIND OF THING TO TAKE LIGHTLY!!!!

Amy is having bad dreams. She screams in the middle of the night, claiming to see the ghost of Charlotte. According to her, Charlotte appears at the foot of the bed, asking why she did it.

I’ve told Amy she’s innocent. Dolly killed Charlotte. If anyone is to blame, it’s me. I noticed Dolly went missing in the middle of the night and just went back to sleep, assuming she’d gone to the bathroom. This entire mess could have been prevented if I’d gone out to investigate.

No amount of assurances will soothe Amy. She’s sensitive. Highly strung. Jumpy because she’s been stuck in a house with a psychopath who’s systematically hurt her and then covered it up by marking her own skin.

Amy doesn’t leave her room, even though that’s where she claims Charlotte haunts her at night. She barely communicates except for stammered apologies to an imaginary ghost. I would call a professional, but I’m trying to cover up a murder.

Lyle tells me to give Amy some time. She’s processing a major trauma, and hallucinating Charlotte is her way of making sense of the tragedy. Everything he says sounds reasonable, but he gets to leave the house for work. I’m stuck with a newborn and a little girl going the way of Lady Macbeth.

Two nights ago, Lyle got an urgent phone call from Three Fates, saying that Dolly had knifed another child. They wanted him to drive over there and pick her up. This triggered a blazing argument. If Dolly is attacking strangers as proxies for Amy, then bringing her back is insanity.

When he asked if I wanted someone else’s daughter to die, I wanted to slap him for treating Amy like a sacrificial lamb. Three Fates has medications, equipment, and qualified personnel. Mr. Delta was supposed to make things better for our family, yet Dolly has gotten worse.

I told Lyle to do whatever he could—say anything to convince the headmaster to fix my daughter. To keep her at Three Fates or transfer her to another facility that can handle her violent episodes.

We’re in this together, I said, not needing to elaborate. Lyle and I both know it was HIM who cleaned up a crime scene, HIM who disposed of a body, HIM who’s responsible for creating the circumstances that led Dolly to kill.

He read the accusation in my eyes and flinched, but I no longer give a fuck. If Lyle had listened to me the first time I complained about Charlotte, then we’d all be happy with a gray-haired old nanny who brought the family together and not tore it apart.

That night, he left for Three Fates, leaving me alone with Amy and Heath. I dragged the crib to my bedside and ordered Amy into my bed. If she woke up in the middle of the night, screaming about Charlotte’s ghost, I’d shoot footage of the empty space on my phone and play it back.

As we shared a leftover bowl of coconut rice pudding in bed, I told Amy that the nightmares were a side effect of the twin connection. She didn’t kill Charlotte, so she shouldn’t shoulder Dolly’s guilt. That seemed to lift her spirits. As we cuddled up together, she thanked me for finally believing her about Dolly.

My chest tightened with guilt. Denial was the reason I’d let Dolly get so out of control. That, and an over-reliance on a therapist who acted like everything wrong in my life was a manifestation of inner shortcomings only he could resolve.

Dr. Forster wanted me dependent on him as a permanent source of income. I worshiped him like a god and placed him above Lyle. With my husband absent or working late, the doctor was my only source of affirmation. If he’d referred the girls to a specialist when I’d asked, he would have lost his cash cow. I should have seen it sooner.

Amy fell asleep first, and I congratulated myself for calming my little girl.

But the next morning, I woke up to my phone ringing. When I opened my eyes, Heath’s head was trapped between the bars of his crib.