CHAPTER 9
Rosie started therapy the following week.
Her therapist, Dr. Lena Brooks, specialized in childhood trauma.
The first session lasted forty minutes.
Rosie barely spoke.
She arranged toy animals around a dollhouse.
All the adult animals stood outside.
One baby rabbit hid under a plastic bed.
Dr. Brooks didn't force anything.
She simply sat nearby.
When the session ended, she asked to speak with me privately.
"Rosie is showing fear around authority figures."
"Because of my family."
"Likely."
"Can she recover from this?"
Dr. Brooks smiled gently.
"Children can heal remarkably well when they are surrounded by safety and consistency."
I needed that sentence.
"Tell me what to do."
"Keep your promises."
"I do."
"Then keep doing it."
Simple.
Not easy.
But simple.
Rosie began having nightmares.
She woke screaming that Grandma was outside.
Some nights, she dreamed about the pantry.
I sat beside her until sunrise.
Other nights, she climbed into my bed.
I stopped worrying about routines.
Safety came first.
Meanwhile, the prosecution built its case.
I tried not to follow every detail.
That was impossible.
Naomi called whenever something affected Rosie.
Detective Hale called whenever new evidence surfaced.
One piece shook me more than I expected.
My mother had kept a journal.
Not a diary.
A planning notebook.
Investigators found it hidden behind insulation in the garage.
Pages listed dates.
Times.
Our schedules.
Megan's work hours.
My shifts.
Rosie's appointments.
One note read:
D works Tuesday late.
M + baby alone.
Another:
R would adjust quickly.
I read those words three times.
R.
Rosie.
Would adjust quickly.
My mother had believed my daughter would simply adjust after losing her mother.
Another note was worse.
Once M is gone, D will need us.
I almost tore the photocopy in half.
That was the whole plan.
Kill Megan.
Let grief break me.
Then move into the space she left behind.
My parents had counted on my dependence.
For years, they had trained me to come back after every argument.
Apologize.
Forgive.
Pretend.
They assumed murder would work the same way.
They were wrong.
The trial was scheduled for spring.
Bethany's child-abuse case would proceed separately first.
The prosecutor asked whether I wanted to provide a victim-impact statement.
I said yes.
Then I changed my mind.
Then yes again.
I didn't know how to explain what Bethany had taken from Rosie.
Not just comfort.
Trust.
A child's belief that grown-ups in her family were safe.
Eventually, I wrote one sentence.
Rosie learned fear from people who were supposed to teach her love.
I stared at it.
That was enough.
At Bethany's sentencing hearing after she accepted a plea on the assault charges, I sat in the second row.
She had pleaded guilty to felony child abuse and witness intimidation.
Her cooperation in the murder case reduced the possible sentence.
I hated that.
But Hale explained that her testimony could help convict my parents.
Justice required choices I didn't like.
Bethany stood before the judge.
Her attorney described her childhood.
My parents' pressure.
Her emotional dependence on my mother.
Then Bethany spoke.
She cried.
"I love Rosie."
My entire body went cold.
She continued.
"I made a mistake."
A mistake.
As if she had forgotten a birthday.
As if she had broken a toy.
"I was angry."
She looked toward me.
"I never meant to hurt her that badly."
That badly.
My hands clenched.
Naomi whispered, "Don't react."
Bethany said she was sorry.
Then the prosecutor read my statement.
Rosie learned fear from people who were supposed to teach her love.
The judge looked at Bethany for a long time.
"A child is not an object upon which adults may discharge anger."
Bethany lowered her head.
"You did not merely injure your niece."
The judge continued.
"You participated in a family environment designed to silence her."
Bethany received prison time.
Less than I wanted.
More than she expected.
As officers led her away, she looked at me.
For one second, she looked like my little sister again.
The girl who used to follow me around the yard.
The teenager who called me when boys broke her heart.
Then I remembered Rosie's bruises.
I looked away.
Some relationships cannot be repaired just because they were once good.
Outside court, Emily approached me.
"How are you?"
"I don't know."
"Fair."
She had lost almost the entire family too.
Her parents still spoke to her, but my mother had turned several relatives against her.
"You regret helping me?" I asked.
Emily looked offended.
"No."
"Even with all this?"
She shook her head.
"I regret waiting so long."
I hugged her.
She stiffened at first.
Then hugged me back.
"Thank you," I said.
"You don't owe me thanks."
"I do."
She wiped her eyes.
"How's Rosie?"
"Getting better."
That evening, Rosie showed me something from therapy.
A paper shield.
Dr. Brooks had asked her to draw things that made her feel safe.
She had drawn our house.
Mrs. Harper.
Emily.
Her teacher.
Dr. Brooks.
Me.
And Megan with wings.
At the bottom, she drew herself.
Not hiding.
Standing in front.
"What are you doing there?" I asked.
Rosie smiled.
"I'm strong."
I crouched beside her.
"You are."
She considered that.
"Strong doesn't mean nobody hurts you."
I stared at her.
"What does it mean?"
"Dr. Lena says strong means I can tell."
My throat tightened.
"She's right."
Rosie lifted her chin.
"If somebody is mean, I tell."
"Always."
"Even if they say police will take me?"
"Especially then."
She nodded seriously.
Then she added something I hadn't heard before.
"I told Mommy too."
I froze.
"In your prayers?"
She nodded.
"I told her I was scared."
"What did Mommy say?"
Rosie smiled.
"She said Daddy came."
I couldn't speak.
Rosie wrapped her arms around me.
May you like
For the first time since that night at my parents' house, I felt something stronger than anger.
Hope.
