The open pages toward the back of the book were ones similar to what Olivia had seen all too often in the therapy world. Childish depictions of familial figures—girls evident by pigtails and dresses, a mother with dark holes for her eyes, a man . . . a father with jagged teeth and a grossly oversize penis. The colors were dark—purple, black, and red.

A telltale sign of abuse.

Olivia leafed to the next page, the images breaking her into two pieces—rational therapist, horrified sister.

Penises. Blood. Dark clouds. Tears. Pictures that told a story of a child in pain.

Marley.

“What is this, Liv?” Neve said, tears in her eyes. “Marley drew these. Is this supposed to be Dad?”

Neve pointed to another rendering of an angry man, large penis jutting from between his legs. The girl in the picture had tears coming from her eyes. In a conversation bubble she’d printed in capital letters: STOP.

Olivia’s hands trembled as she turned yet another page. Inside, the earlier trepidation about Spencer and Conrad had disappeared, replaced with utter devastation. She couldn’t answer Neve because she wasn’t sure if it was their father.

But then again, she was.

Her mind flipped back to things Marley had said as a child, things that an older sister might dismiss, as Marley always applied theatrics to every situation. Things she said, like, “Daddy likes me the best,” or “Daddy says I’m special.” Once Marley had declared that if Mommy died, Daddy would marry her because she was his special girl. Things that Olivia had resented because she’d been a bit jealous of Marley. Being the plump middle child between two svelte beauties wasn’t easy, especially as she’d always felt like the odd sister out. So she’d not wanted to hear her younger sister brag about how she was their handsome, accomplished father’s favorite.

In hindsight, though, Marley’s words were ones sexually abused children often uttered because the abuser applied such tactics to justify and reassure the child he was abusing that she was special. Master manipulation.

“Liv,” Neve demanded.

“I don’t know. I mean, it looks like—”

“I’m going to fucking kill him.” Neve sprang from the bed, pacing back in forth in her striped pajamas, her hands pointed and stabbing into the air. “He did this. He did that. He’s a fucking liar. He lied to all of us. He’s dead. Dead to me. I—I . . .”

Olivia shut the book and sank back into the pillows. “Oh my God. That’s why she killed herself. She tried to tell me, and I . . . Jesus, I tried to be a therapist to her and not a sister.”

Neve stopped in her tracks. “Killed herself?”