Chapter 3

Days blurred into a haze of grief and interrogation.

Sarah barely ate, barely slept.

The image of Emily in the art room was seared into her mind.

Mark' s lawyer, a sleek man named Mr. Davies, suggested a therapist.

"Dr. Evans," he said, "He specializes in trauma. He uses hypnosis. It might help you remember what really happened. It could help your case if you can show remorse, show you understand what you did."

Sarah recoiled. "I didn't do anything!"

But the doubt, planted by Mark, by the relentless accusations, had taken root.

What if she had? What if some dark part of her, a remnant of the PPD, had surfaced?

She was so tired. So broken.

The thought of knowing, even if it was the worst, seemed almost a relief from the crushing uncertainty.

"Okay," she whispered, "I'll see him."

Dr. Evans had kind eyes and a soothing voice.

The hypnosis room was dimly lit, quiet.

"Just relax, Sarah," Dr. Evans murmured, "Let your mind drift. Go back to that day. The art class."

Sarah closed her eyes.

His voice guided her.

And then, images.

Horrifying, vivid images.

She saw herself, but not herself. An angrier, distorted version.

She saw Emily, confused, scared.

She felt a surge of rage, alien and terrifying.

Her hands, moving, not under her control.

The box cutter.

Blood.

Emily' s small, still face.

Then, a frantic need to hide the evidence.

The duffel bag, heavy.

Emily' s head.

She saw herself, in this nightmarish vision, moving stealthily to a poorly lit storage closet off the art room.

Inside, a large, lidded clay recycling bin.

She "remembered" lifting the lid, placing the severed head inside, covering it with clay scraps.

The "memory" was so real, so visceral.

She woke from the hypnosis gasping, tears streaming down her face.

"I did it," she choked out, "Oh God, I killed my baby."

The horror of the "recollection" was absolute.

Dr. Evans looked at her with a practiced expression of sorrowful understanding.

He immediately informed Detective Harding.

The police went to the community center, to the art room storage closet.

They found the clay recycling bin.

They lifted the lid.

And there, exactly where Sarah' s hypnotically-induced "memory" indicated, they found Emily' s head.

The discovery cemented her guilt in everyone's eyes.

Her own "confession," her own "memory," had condemned her.

There was no fight left in her.

She had lost control. She had done the unthinkable.

The "Monster Mom" was real.

And it was her.

The public outcry intensified.

How could a mother do such a thing?

Her past PPD was now the definitive explanation.

Sarah Miller, the loving mother, was a facade.

Underneath, a killer had lurked, waiting.

The media feasted on the story.

Sarah, overwhelmed by guilt and self-loathing, accepted her fate.

She was a monster. She deserved whatever came next.

The legal process moved forward, a grim march towards a life sentence.

Her public defender, overworked and faced with an apparent full confession, could offer little hope.

Sarah just wanted it to be over.

The pain of what she believed she had done was a constant, unbearable torment.