"Stop," I commanded. It wasn't a shout; it was a wall of sound that froze her in her tracks.
I walked toward her, the distance between the hospital bed and the doorway feeling like a mile. With every step, the fog of the last two years lifted. I saw the hoodies in the summer. I saw the way Emily always asked Rachel before taking a snack. I saw the "little system" for what it truly was: a regime of psychological and physical terror, perpetrated while I sat in glass boardrooms telling myself I was a good provider.
"She took a piece of bread, Rachel," I said softly, standing inches from her face.
Rachel’s eyes flickered. A microscopic break in her perfect façade. "What? Jack, no, she was playing with the boiling water. She's confused. The trauma—"