tears dribbled across Susan’s neck.
“I’m sorry,” Susan whispered. “I’m so very sorry.” She could think of nothing else to say.
Elliot appeared beside them. “Do you know anything about Rylan’s condition?”
Susan could only shake her head. “Not yet.” She did not say anything about Sharicka. She did not know if telling them the child was safe would soothe or infuriate them.
Before she could say anything more, the father spoke in anguished tones. “It’s all my fault. She behaved so well all evening, I guess I let my guard down. After she fell asleep, I figured we were good till early morning.”
The mother pulled away from Susan long enough to say, “It’s not your fault, Elliot.” She added forcefully, at least partially for Susan’s benefit, “It’s not anyone’s fault. It’s . . . her brain. It’s just not right.” She dissolved into tears again.
Elliot Anson eased his wife off Susan. “I just thought . . . I guess I figured . . .” He did not need to finish the sentence.
Susan shook her head. “Stop blaming yourself, Dr. Anson.” She wished she could take her own advice. Despite the mother’s effort to absolve her, Susan only felt guiltier. She had suggested the visit. She had encouraged them, even when Lucianne Anson had voiced serious doubts. She was the one with the medical knowledge, the one who should have known better.
Susan forced herself to continue. “No one could believe a child Sharicka’s age was capable of doing so much harm so quickly. I have to believe people like Sharicka inspired the stories of demonic possession, that they explain the occasional infanticide in ancient cultures. Medical confidentiality is strict, especially when it comes to both mental illnesses and children. Juvenile conduct disorder is rare, and the extreme nature of Sharicka’s case is exceptionally so. I believe other patients this young, this severe, exist; but there is little to no available information about them.” Susan hoped she had made both of her cases: that the cause of Sharicka’s problem was a brain abnormality no one could have seen or prevented and that the degree of her violence went beyond what anyone could have predicted.
Lucianne Anson pulled free from her husband. “Would you think less of us if we . . . never took her home again?”
Susan could barely believe any other option existed, even in the minds of loving parents. “Of course not. Are you wanting to terminate your parental rights?”
The parents exchanged glances. They had clearly discussed this topic thoroughly as they waited for news of Rylan’s condition. Elliot detailed their conclusions. “Sharicka belongs in permanent residential care, where trained professionals can watch her twenty-four/seven; but you’ve told us that can’t happen because of her age. We’re worried if we terminate our rights, she’ll wind up in someone else’s home.”
Lucianne blurted out, “And kill someone else’s children, too.”
Susan wanted to tell them such a thing would not happen, could not happen; but she had a grim and terrible feeling they were right. Kendall’s words came back to haunt her:
Elliot cringed. “Believe it or not, we will always love Sharicka. She’s our daughter. But, if Rylan . . . if Rylan . . .” Now, tears dripped down his face. He could scarcely squeeze out the words.
Susan wished she could help him, but she did not know what he intended to say.
“If Rylan survives, it would be torture for him to have her in our home. We love our son as well, and he is innocent.”
Susan could see their point. If the Ansons terminated their parental rights, Sharicka would become a ward of the state. She would spend a significant amount of time in the PIPU. All too soon, however, the horror of the moment would fade and people would start to rationalize the murder. They would say the Ansons orchestrated it or abused Sharicka so badly she had to lash out. Someone else would suggest that Misty and Rylan had ganged up to mercilessly torment their little sister until she could stand it no longer. Others would sincerely believe that a preschooler had no capacity for evil, that a girl so young simply had no ability to understand the consequences of her actions. Eventually, Sharicka would learn to manipulate the system, to “remember” nonexistent abuses, to say whatever gained her the compassion she had no capacity to experience herself.
Well-intentioned social workers would foist Sharicka into multiple foster placements, where she would leave havoc and a wake of bodies behind her. The Ansons had an impossible decision. Regardless of their innocence, a cloud of suspicion would always follow them, regardless of whether they chose to terminate their parental rights. Protecting their only remaining son might mean damning so many other children and destroying other families.
Susan reached for her palm-pross. “I have one new option to offer you, still in the research stage.”
The Doctors Anson fixed their gazes on her, clearly interested.
Susan explained the nanorobot study, first superficially, then in more depth. Whether they chose to try it or not, at least the conversation allowed them to take a break from worrying about Rylan. When Susan finished her explanation, the parents did not even bother to discuss it.
“We’ll do it,” the mother said.
The father nodded.
The absolute desperation of both of their replies did not escape Susan. They would have agreed to almost anything. They had nothing to lose, and neither did Sharicka.
Susan gave Elliot Anson the palm-pross to sign, and he did so awkwardly because of the bandages but without any hesitation. Lucianne affixed her name below his. As the mother wrote, Susan noticed movement from the corner of her eye. When she turned to face the entrance, she found Remington Hawthorn coming toward them.
Leaving the palm-pross with the Ansons, Susan darted over to meet him, took his arm firmly, and escorted him away from the waiting room.
Remington looked at her dazedly as he found himself walking opposite the direction he had intended. “Susan. What are you doing here?”
“Talking to a patient’s family. I presume you’re doing the same.”
Remington caught on immediately. “The alleged four-year-old murderer is a patient of yours.”
Susan nodded forcefully. “And there’s no ‘alleged’ to it. She’s fascinated by what she did, and it’s not her first attempt.”
Remington’s brows shot up. “A four-year-old
The thought chilled Susan to her marrow. “Attempted serial killer. So far, she’s only completed one murder, though it’s not for lack of trying.” Susan realized the imaginative array of Sharicka’s attempts did not bode well for the future: drowning, stabbing, strangulation, and the choking hazard added to a child’s drink. When Sharicka discovered guns, there would be no telling what might happen.
“I’m glad you told me,” Remington said, sounding more perplexed than pleased. “It changes my feelings about the family, which will probably affect my approach when I tell them Rylan will likely make a full recovery.”
“Oh, thank God.” Susan spoke before she had a chance to consider her words. “I don’t think they could handle any more bad news.”
Remington studied Susan as if seeing her for the first time. “You’re positive the four-year-old really did this . . . and of her own volition. That she’s not under the influence of . . .”
Susan understood his hesitation and doubt. It had become predictable. “Her father is not manipulating her into taking the blame, nor into taking these actions. She’s a very sick little girl.”
Remington sighed. “I have to admit I would have expected deeper cuts had an adult inflicted them, even with something as blunt as a butter knife.” He glanced past Susan, and she appreciated that he accepted her authority without further questioning. If she said a four-year-old caused the trauma, he would no longer cast suspicion on the father. “I’d love to give you a full report, but why repeat myself? Let’s let the worried parents off the hook.”
Susan nodded, then gestured to indicate Remington should go first. He did so, and she followed him back into the waiting room.
Dr. Elliot Anson had returned to his pacing; but, the instant Remington entered the doorway, he grabbed a seat beside his wife. “How’s Rylan?” Both parents turned agonized gazes onto the neurosurgery resident. Seeing their raw and honest expressions, Susan wondered how anyone could suspect them of harming any of their
