She was still in therapy mode, worried what I would think, how I would analyze her every move. “I get it, Harper. Your dad came to your rescue. So, maybe that was a way to get his attention, yes? Is that what you learned in all those years of therapy? That you were just seeking your father’s attention?”
She wilted. “Something like that. And maybe they’re right.”
“I thought we had an agreement.” When she turned back to me, I continued. “I thought we were going on the assumption that you are not making things up. That you did not imagine or fabricate any of this.” I leaned in closer. “That you’re not crazy.”
“But it makes sense.”
“Sure it does. So does exercise, but you don’t see me doing it on a regular basis, do you? And if it would make you feel better, I could analyze you myself. Tell you all the reasons why you’ve pulled these accusations out of thin air. I minored in psychology. I’m totally qualified.”
A timid smile emerged from behind her hair.
“I know how you feel. I’ve been analyzed to death as well. Not, like, professionally, though I did date a psych major who said I had attention issues. Or at least that’s what I think he said. I wasn’t really paying attention. Anyway, where was I?” When she didn’t answer in less that seven-twelfths of a second, I continued my rant. “Right, so what I’m trying to say is that—”
“You’re crazier than I am?” She crinkled her nose in delight.
With a laugh, I said, “Something like that. So, what happened with the rabbit?”
“Nothing really. My dad said the dog brought it in, but the dog wasn’t allowed in the house.”
“Can you describe the rabbit? Was there any blood?”
She thought back. Her brows furrowed in concentration; then a slight rush of fear flitted across her face. “Nobody’s ever asked me that. In over twenty-five years, not one person has asked me about that rabbit.”
“Harper?”
“No. I’m sorry, no, there was no blood. None. Its neck was broken.”
“Okay.” She seemed to be making a connection in her mind of some kind. I wondered if she was still talking about the rabbit. I kept silent awhile, let her absorb whatever she needed to, then asked, “What happened later? What led you to believe someone was trying to kill you?”
She blinked back to me with a shake of her head. “Oh, well, just little things. Strange things, one right after another.”
“Like?”
“Like the time my stepbrother set my dog’s house on fire. With him in it.”
“Your stepbrother did this? On purpose?”
“He says it was an accident. I believe him now, but I didn’t at the time.”
“Why not?”
“Because that same night, my electric blanket caught fire.”
“With you in it,” I said knowingly.
She nodded. “With me in it.”
Well, ass**le stepbrother just jumped to the number one position of possible suspects.
“But they always happened like that: in twos.”
“What do you mean?”
“I had a birthday party about a week after the first incident, the dead rabbit thing. And my stepmother’s sister came to the party with her two horrid children.” She actually shivered in revulsion. “They were so aggressive. Anyway, she gave me a rabbit. A white rabbit just like the one in my room, only someone had torn a small hole in the back and had taken out part of the stuffing so that its head flopped to the side.”
“Like its neck was broken.”
“Exactly.”
What a loving family. I didn’t want to bring up the rabbit I’d found in her kitchen. It could have been the same one, or it could have been placed there more recently, but I was afraid if I mentioned it, I’d lose her altogether.
“Everyone laughed,” she continued, “when I got upset. My aunt held it up to me, flopping its head from side to side. She had a shrill laugh that reminded me of a jet engine during takeoff.”
“And you were five?” I asked, horrified.
She nodded and proceeded to pick lint off her dark blue coat.
“What did your father do while all this was going on?”
“Working. Always working.”
“What else happened?”
“Just odd little things. Jewelry would go missing or my shoelaces would be tied in knots every morning for a week.”
Things that could definitely be chalked up to a bratty brother playing practical jokes.
“Then I started seeing someone in my room at night.”
“That’s creepy.”
“Tell me about it.”
“And you never recognized who it was?”
After shaking her head, she said, “But it didn’t get really bad until I was around seven. My stepbrother gave me a plastic ring with a spider on it.” She grinned sheepishly. “We liked spiders and bugs and snakes and things.”
“Spiders are cool as long as they respect personal boundaries,” I said. “Namely mine. But why do I get the feeling it doesn’t end there?”
“That night, the same night he gave me the ring, I was bitten three times on the stomach by baby black widows as I lay sleeping. They found two of them in my pajamas.”
“Someone could have put them there while you slept.”
“Exactly.”
“Do you think your brother had anything to do with it?”