As I paused, in tears, I saw that Dr. Temple was completely sympathetic, that she understood what I was saying and was listening without judgment.
“Lately,” I said, starting to feel a bit stronger, a bit braver, buoyed by her kind eyes and supportive silence,
“lately, though, I’ve come to realize that she’s... she’s just bad.
She’s the bad one. I’m not bad and it’s not my fault. I didn’t make her bad, and I’m not bad for wanting nothing to do with her,
for feeling sad and angry—no, furious—about what she did.”
The next bit was hard, and I looked at my clasped hands as I spoke,
scared to see any change in Dr. Temple’s demeanor in response to the words coming out of my mouth.
I knew that something about her was very, very wrong. I’ve always known, as long as I can remember.
But I didn’t tell anyone. And people died...” I dared to look up,
and felt my body slump with relief when I saw the expression on Maria’s face, unchanged.
“Who died, Eleanor?” she said quietly. I took a deep breath. “Marianne,” I said. “Marianne died.”
I looked at my hands, then back at Maria. “Mummy set a fire. She wanted to kill us both, except, somehow, Marianne died and I didn’t.”
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