I shift my head away from the camera and go to the bathroom. I have searched in here for a camera and have found nothing. Not even in the vent for the shower, or inside the light fixture. I have inspected every inch of this room and have allowed myself to believe I am right. I need to believe.

Still, I close the door and turn off the light before I let myself be free.

I sit on the floor and cover my face with my hands. Alice’s words fly through my mind. Ominous words carried on that sweet little voice.

I refuse to hate her, though I feel it creeping in. She is a victim as much as I am. As much as her first mommy, I have come to believe.

I am trying not to hate you, my little prison guard.

This is how it begins.

The end.

I don’t know how much time has passed when I hear her voice. I have fallen asleep on the bathroom floor.

“Hello?” It’s Alice.

I push myself to sit. I have slept in a puddle of tears. Wet hair sticks to clammy skin. I am exhausted.

“Just a second,” I say. I manage to sound perky, though my voice cracks.

I don’t know how much longer I can do this. Not with the hatred. It is toxic. Hating a child, a victim. Poison.

“What have you been doing in there?” she asks.

I stand up and find the light switch. The light is bright and it burns my eyes, causing them to squint.

“I had a long bath,” I tell her.

“I didn’t hear the water,” she says.

God help me but it’s back. This hatred will kill me before Mick does. I have to make peace with it. With her.

I don’t push the hair from my face. I don’t wipe away the tears. I open the door and walk to the edge of my cell. And I let her see me.

She is startled.

“What’s wrong with you?’ she asks.

I sit on the floor and she sits down on the other side of the bars. I reach through them and take both her hands.

I pull from inside me everything I know about children, from being their teacher, from being their mother. It does no good to lie now. She is smart enough to put together the evidence and lying will unnerve her. Children need to trust grown-ups. The moment they realize we are liars is the moment they lose their childhood.

“Alice,” I say. “You’re right. I did not take a bath. I told you that because I was crying in the bathroom and I didn’t want you to know.”

Her empathy appetite is strong today so she starts to cry.

“I feel so bad for you. What made you cry for so long?”

I do not let go of her hands.