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“Because I wanted her to leave me alone.”

I stared at her, trying to understand her. But I couldn’t. Who the fuck used their mother’s death to scare somebody?

My daughter, apparently.

“She said you told her you smothered Monica.”

“I lied. Daddy, I swear I lied.”

She got off the bed and came toward me.

“I was mad at her. I wanted her out of here. I didn’t do anything to Mommy.”

I could hear how badly she wanted me to believe her. I also knew how badly I wanted to.

Monica had been sick. We had known she was dying. I had accepted that once, and standing there with Storie crying in front of me, I reached for it again.

“All right,” I said.

She grabbed my shirt.

“I’ll do anything. Just don’t hate me.”

“I don’t hate you. But I need to get you some help.”

“I’ll go to therapy more. I’ll talk to Ms. Braithwaite. I’ll tell her everything,” she pleaded with me.

I had already sat in that woman’s office and heard that my daughter was doing well. Now Storie was admitting things I hadn’t been able to get anybody else to see.

“We’re getting a different kind of help.”

She shook her head.

“Daddy…”

“Get your shoes on now!” I commanded.

“Where are we going?”

“Shady Grove. You’re going to talk to somebody who can figure out what you need.”

“I said I’m sorry.”

“I heard you. But that ain’t enough,” I replied.

“Then why are you taking me to the hospital?” she whined.

“Because you are sick and I can’t have you here. If you want to fix this, you’ll go to the doctor.”

She let go of my shirt.

I watched her face while she tried to come up with something else to say. For once, I didn’t give her time to find it.

“Get dressed, Storie. I’ll be right outside.”

I stood in the hall while she changed. My phone kept vibrating, and I ignored it. Whatever the casino needed would have to wait.

I had chosen to believe her about Monica. I knew that was a choice. She had just admitted lying about everything else, and I had taken the one denial I could still live with.