Page 103 of Mad Mabel

“And I still remain steadfast.”

“Ness spoke for you in court. She also believed your father had killed Cess.”

“Yes. She was right.”

Libby looks back at her notes. “We noticed that the court reviewed your journal during the trial and commented that your entries were incredibly detailed and accurate—the weather, the dates, the tiny, specific details about what you did on certain days. The only part of your journal that couldn’t be verified was…”

“Daphne.”

71

THEN

After I was sure my father was dead, I covered Cess in her blue silk bathrobe. The idea of the police finding her naked was too much for me. I found a pillow, turned her neck carefully, and rested her head against it. I smoothed her hair. All of these actions—tampering with her body—looked very bad for me in court later, but I’ve never regretted it. Cess would have done the same for anyone.

I left my father in a pool of his own blood.

Then I went to find Daphne. To say goodbye.

I knew what was going to happen to me. Of course I knew. Daphne refused to believe it. She wanted to fight. But I’d been fighting too long.

“I’ll be fine,” I said. “Don’t forget: I’m Mad Mabel.”

I tried to smile, to be brave. But Daphne didn’t smile.

“I hate that name,” Daphne said, as I stood to leave. “It doesn’t fit at all. To me you’ll always be Maybelline.”

She smiled at me, through tears, and we hugged. Then I went outside. Daphne came to the window to wave. As I waved back, I thought of that night at the hospital when I tried to conjure up Katie Maurice in the window, just like Anne did, inAnne of Green Gables. A few days later, Daphne appeared, just like she did when I was in kindergarten and desperately needed a friend. She was a mirage, an answered prayer. She appeared as if by magic.

72

NOW

“So who is Daphne?” Adeem asks.

I’m surprised to feel that my cheeks are damp. “Daphne,” I say, “is myfriend.”

My voice betrays me by cracking. Libby and Adeem are quiet a moment.

“Records show that there was a child called Daphne Barton enrolled in your kindergarten class,” Libby says gently. “From what we can see, she returned to England with her parents after kindergarten, but we have been unable to find any evidence of her return when you were fourteen.”

I don’t reply.

Adeem looks at his notes. “The court expert called it multiple personality disorder. It made sense given the traumas of your childhood—losing your mother and sister while you were so young. This finding allowed you to go to a mental facility rather than a prison, and only be held for five years before you were released.”

“I know,” I say.

Adeem looks up. “Were you insane, Elsie?”

“You mean was I mad, Mabel?” I say, laughing blackly. “What do you think?”

“I think you were perfectly sane then, and you are perfectly sane now.”

“Thank you.”

Now the tears are falling in earnest. Adeem stands and takes a tissue from the box on the mantel and hands it to me.

“So, she is a… fictional friend?” Adeem asks. “Someone from your early childhood that reappeared to bring you comfort?”