About loving Emma.
About being worried for her.
About seeing “wildness” in the child.
Wildness.
My fingers curled around the bench.
“She needed structure,” Diane said. “Mariela let her run the house. Children today are overstimulated. I only wanted to help her rest.”
The prosecutor stood.
“Mrs. Patterson, did you give Emma medication prescribed to you?”
Diane’s mouth tightened.
“I may have given her a tiny amount once or twice when she was hysterical.”
The prosecutor lifted the notebook.
“Once or twice?”
Diane looked away.
The prosecutor read entries.
Date.
Dose.
Response.
Date.
Dose.
Response.
With every line, Diane shrank.
Not in guilt.
In exposure.
Then came the question that ended her.
“Mrs. Patterson, what did you mean when you wrote, ‘Andrés likely useful’?”
Diane’s lips parted.
No answer came.
The prosecutor waited.
The courtroom waited.
For once, Diane had no script.
Finally, she said:
“My son is easily influenced.”
The prosecutor nodded.
“By whom?”
Diane realized the trap too late.
Her eyes darted to Andrés.
“To protect his daughter,” she said.
But the damage was done.
