Page 59

Jessica

God, this bitch is crazy. How do they even let her work in a place like this? No wonder he cuffed her to the chair. No wonder she and Mom don’t talk. I always wondered how anyone could not get along with Mom. I mean, she’s like the chillest person in the world.

“Jessica? How do you feel, hearing that?”

What a dumb question. I must look at him in a way that conveys that, because he chuckles and holds up his hand as if to cancel the question. Thank God, because I really wasn’t sure what to say. Ummm ... not good?

“Let me rephrase the question: Why do you think Dinah wanted to kill you?”

“Because she’s nuts?” That seems pretty obvious to me. “I mean, no offense.”

“I’m talking about more of a personal motivation.” He leans forward as if he’s really curious about what I’m about to say.

I hate to break it to him, but I have no idea why a woman I’ve never met before hates me to the point of trying to fake my suicide. I shrug and he seems disappointed by the response.

“Joe, I’m not sure that this is—”

“Shut up, Dinah,” he says smoothly, and she flinches like he just slapped her. I look down at my legs. Damn, this is awkward. I hope he doesn’t speak to me like that.

“Jessica, I’m thinking that Dinah wanted to kill you for a different reason.” His leg bounces for a moment; then he swings it off his knee and leans forward, resting both forearms on his thighs.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Joe—” Dinah says faintly.

“Yes?” He turns to her. “I’d love to hear your input on this. Would you like to share? But be aware ...” He leans in until their faces are just a foot apart. “Lie about it, and I’ll put you in the box.”

Her face goes white and I straighten up, alarmed.

“What’s the box?”

They both ignore me. They are just staring at each other as if they are communicating with their minds.

“What’s in the box?” I repeat, louder.

“I don’t know why I did it,” she says quietly.

“It was a mistake, Joe. I ...” She tries to reach for him, but the handcuffs keep her arms in place.

Frustrated, she screams, her muscles straining as she tries to force the movement.

Only her legs are free, and her tennis shoes skid across the wood as she bucks in place.

“I’m sorry,” she sobs, and starts to cry big gulping tears, like that kid I used to babysit across the street.

“It’s okay,” I say awkwardly. “I mean, you did stop.”

“I know exactly why you won’t tell me, Dinah.” He grips her chin and lifts it until their eyes are level. “It’s because you’re afraid of losing me. But I already know the truth. So I’m going to need to hear it from you or else you’re going to go in the box.”

“What’s the box?” I ask again, and I’m not sure why I’m even in here, since this seems to be some personal problem between the two of them.

To be honest, it’s super awkward. Granted, I’m not in a hurry to go back to my room.

Even waist deep in tension, it’s better than just staring at the walls, wearing a diaper.

He gave me a clean pair of scrubs for this.

I mean, it’s not my best color—salmon—but he traded the diapers for a pair of clean underwear, which is like, heaven.

And he said I’ve been really good and am going to be moved to a different room with a toilet and get fresh clothes each morning.

So, whatever. I’ll sit here while they stare into each other’s eyes and talk like the end of the world is about to happen.

Honestly, I don’t really care why my crazy aunt wanted to kill me.

Just fire her or arrest her or whatever, and get on to mealtime.

I haven’t been fed all day. I almost said something when he came into my room earlier, but I figured we were going into a session and I could just ask him in the session, and then she was here and now it seems like it will be rude to bring it up while she’s all teary and shit.

“Okay,” she sniffs, and he carefully wipes his thumbs under her eyes, getting the tears. She sobs, her gaze stuck to him, and the sound is the same as when my vacuum cleaner whines. Like a long, stretched-out cry. Total drama queen. “I didn’t want you to ever find out about her.”

I got news for this bitch. He knew about me before she went Edward Scissorhands on my wrists. I was his patient. We’ve spent like a week together. Talk about beating a dead horse.

“What’s special about her? Why would it matter if I found out about her?” He asks the question in the way someone who already knows the answer would, and I tune back in to the conversation. I’ve been described as a lot of things, but special was never one of them.

She pauses, and her face crumples in the moment before she speaks. “Because she’s my daughter.”