When confronted at home, Esther’s expression would melt into innocent confusion.
“They’re lying,” she’d whisper, her wide eyes calm, almost too calm.
But something in her gaze left Veronica uneasy. That innocence—it felt performed, rehearsed.
At home, things weren’t any easier.
Esther had a strange habit of dismantling Arthur’s and James’s toys—not in a burst of childish frustration, but methodically, as though studying how they worked.
Veronica once found the remains of a walkie-talkie in pieces, each part laid out on the floor like a science experiment. When questioned, Esther dissolved into sobs, wailing as though her world had shattered.
The emotional swings were jarring.
One moment she was ice-cold and calculating; the next, she was crying like a toddler denied dessert.
Veronica tried to make sense of the whiplash, but the contradictions left her drained and confused.
James remained optimistic, his tone always calm, almost dismissive.
“She’s adjusting,” he said. “This is just part of the process. Kids act out when they’re scared.”
But as the incidents added up, Veronica’s worry deepened into dread.
Then came the moment she couldn’t ignore.
Arthur ran to her one evening, pale and shaking, clutching his favorite toy car like a lifeline.
“She scared me,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “She said… if I tell on her again, I won’t wake up tomorrow.”