CHAPTER 2: WHAT THE BODY REMEMBERS
At the hospital, everything moved too fast and too slow at the same time.
Doctors surrounded Lily. Machines beeped. Words like “toxicology,” “sedatives,” and “exposure” floated through the air like knives wrapped in soft voices.
Sedatives.
I felt something inside me snap into clarity.
Someone hadn’t just put her in that dumpster.
Someone made sure she couldn’t fight.
A nurse gently asked, “Does anyone in your household take medication for anxiety or sleep?”
I thought of my mother’s nightly routine. The little white pills. The way she always insisted they were harmless.
Marcus looked at me.
We both knew.
Back at the house, the police weren’t asking politely anymore.
They were collecting.
The knife on the counter.
The cups.
The trash bags.
May you like
And most importantly—
the silence.
Because silence, when a child nearly dies, is never innocence.
