“I know,” Greg replied steadily.

“Take me home.”

“Can’t do that, buddy.”

“You could stay with me. Like we’ve done before.”

I stilled. Like they’d done before? I eased back, out of sight of the open doorway.

“You get to stay here for a bit, buddy. We’re going to work with you on calming down, on controlling that temper of yours, until you feel stronger, better about yourself. Don’t worry. This is a nice place. We’ll take good care of you.”

“Mommy,” the boy said again.

Greg didn’t reply.

“I hurt her,” the boy murmured. “Had the knife. Had to use it. Had to, had to.”

The boy sounded mournful. Greg continued his silence, letting the quiet do his work for him.

“I am a naughty, naughty boy,” the child whispered, so low I could barely hear him. “Nobody loves a boy as naughty as me.”

“You called nine-one-one,” Greg told him. “That was smart thinking, Evan. A good thing to do.”

“Blood is sticky. Warm. Didn’t know she’d bleed like that. I think I ruined the sofa.” Suddenly, the boy started to cry. “Greg, do you think Mommy will hate me? Call her, you must call her. Tell her I’m sorry. It was an accident. I didn’t know she’d bleed like that. I didn’t know!”

The boy’s voice picked up dangerously, his agitation spiking. I strode into the room, just as Greg began, “Evan, I want you to take a deep breath-”

“I ruined the sofa!”

“Evan-”

“I want to go home, go home, go home. I’ll be a good boy this time. I promise, I’ll be a good boy. No more knives. Just let me go home home home home home.”

The boy rolled away from Greg, dashing for the doorway. I blocked his way just in time, sticking out my arms. He bounced off me like a rubber ball, crashing into the neighboring wall. Rather than a second escape attempt, he slammed his head against the Sheetrock, a frustrated scream escaping him: “Ahhhahhhahhhhahhhhahhh…”

Benadryl? I mouthed to Greg over the noise.

He shook his head. “Paradoxical reaction. Grab Ativan.”

I rushed down the hall for the meds as Greg tried again in his firm baritone: “Evan. Listen to me, buddy. Look at me, buddy. Evan…”

By the time I returned, Evan had blood running down his nose from a cut on his forehead and Greg was holding out his cell phone, trying to capture the boy’s attention. “Evan. Evan, look at me. We’ll call your mom. We’ll call her right now. Okay? Just look at me, Evan. Watch me.” Greg punched some numbers into the phone. Evan stopped banging his head long enough to watch, his body shuddering with the effort to stay still. The boy was gone, his blood-rimmed eyes glazed over, his cheeks pale, his hands clenched into rigid fists. Most kids took days to recover from the emotional overload of a psychotic break. Evan, on the other hand, looked ready for round two.

I could feel it again, a wafting chill, like a dark cloud drifting across the sun. I wished I hadn’t come here tonight. Something was wrong. Even more wrong than last night, when we found Lucy’s body, dangling from the ceiling…

A receptionist had picked up at the other end of Greg’s cell phone. “Victoria Oliver,” he requested.

Evan started to dance, blue eyes wild, the blood dripping off the end of his nose, staining his blue-striped shirt. “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy.”

“Take your medicine,” Greg told Evan, just as a woman’s voice sounded in his phone. “Victoria?”

“Hello?”

“Meds, Evan.”

Evan whirled on me, nearly toppling me over. I surrendered the paper cup. He popped the Ativan, dancing again as he eyed Greg’s phone.

“Victoria,” Greg said again, tucking the phone to his ear. “This is Greg. I’m here with Evan. I thought… He needs to hear that you’re all right. And I thought you’d like to know that he’s all right. Everything’s good here.”

I couldn’t catch the reply. Evan was spinning around, a whirling dervish of blonde hair, blue shirt, and red blood.

A rush of frigid air, swirling up my spine, whispering down my arms…

“The pediatric psych ward’s on the eighth floor,” Greg was saying. “Yes, it’s a lockdown unit. Acute care. We’re a good facility, Vic; it’ll be okay.”

Vic? How did Greg know where to call Evan’s mother? Or that she’d take his call? Trying to contact a parent whose child had stabbed her wasn’t the smartest thing in the world. Unless you knew that the parent was open to such a call, and had the mental fortitude to handle it. Unless you knew the parent…

I was cold. Very cold. Shivering uncontrollably.

Greg, on the phone: “Can you… are you game? Just for a second. I don’t think he can take much… No, you need to take care of you. We’ll take care of him. Victoria… Vic… Trust me on this one. Evan needs you healthy. That’s what your son needs.”

“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy,” Evan whined, still twirling.

Greg held out the phone. “One sentence, Evan. Listen to your Mom’s voice. Know she’s all right. Tell her you’re all right. Then we’re done.”

Evan grabbed the phone. He pressed it to his ear. He smiled, one bright second of relief as he connected to his mother. His posture relaxed, he came down off his toes.

Then, before I could move, before Greg could snatch the phone back:

“I will get you next time, bitch,” Evan snarled into the receiver. “Next time I will carve out your FUCKING HEART!”

The boy hurtled the phone to the floor, then flung himself at the wall, banging his head savagely.

“Oh Evan,” Greg said tiredly.

I rushed down the hall to get more Ativan.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Evan.

Evan who?

Evan, the little boy who loves you.

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Evan.

Evan who?

Evan, the little boy who wants to kill you.

Knock knock. Who’s there? Michael, your husband who’s going to marry another.

Knock knock. Who’s there? Chelsea, your daughter who thinks you don’t love her anymore.

Knock knock. Knock knock. Knock knock.

I lie in my hospital bed, watching the green line on my heart monitor. Sounds echo down the crowded floor. Busy nurses, grumpy patients, chirping machines. I fixate on the stark white paint on the wall nearest me. The mirror-bright silver of the bed’s guardrails. The heavy black phone, weighing down the blanket on my legs. Then I study the monitor again, amazed at how a heart can remain beating long after it’s been broken.

My side hurts. Red blood flecks the white bandage. A deeper burn stings somewhere on the inside. Maybe an infection’s already building. It’ll taint my blood, shut down my vital organs. I’ll die in this room, and never have to go home.

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Evan, the little boy who loves you.

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Evan, the little boy who wants to kill you.

Knock knock.

Then it comes to me. Fuzzy at first, but with growing certainty. I don’t want to live like this. I don’t want to be this person. I don’t want to lead this life. I need a new approach, a new attitude. I need to move, even if it kills me, because God knows, I’m already dying on the inside.

I think of summer sand. I remember the first time I held both of my children. And I remember the look on Michael’s face the day he left me.

So many dreams that never came true. So much love I gave away, that never returned to me.

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Victoria.

Victoria who?

Well, isn’t that the million-dollar question? Victoria who?

I need to get out of here. Then, suddenly, absolutely, I know what I’m going to do.