She placed that toy car on the second step, where I’d be sure to slip on it. Then she made noises in the kitchen, to wake me up and draw me downstairs. She wanted this to happen.” My husband is trying his best to maintain a neutral expression. He sits by our bed, where I lie propped up on pillows and groggy from Vicodin. I’ve broken no bones but my back is knotted in pain and I can barely move without sending my muscles into fresh spasms. He doesn’t look at me, but stays focused on the duvet, as if he can’t bring himself to meet my gaze. I know how absurd I sound, claiming that a three-year-old plotted to kill me, but the pain pills have loosened all the connections in my brain, and a whole host of possibilities floats around me, like poisonous gnats. Lily is downstairs with my aunt Val, and I hear her call out: “Mommy? Mommy, come play with us!” My darling daughter. I shudder at the sound of her voice. Rob lets out a troubled sigh.
