“I killed my mother.” I’d said those words to Mackenzie’s psychologist. I could say them to Dean now. “I was holding the knife. I felt it go into her chest.” “You couldn’t stop it,” Dean told me. “The knife was in your hands. Her fingers wrapped around yours.” I laid my hand on his chest. There was a spot, just inside the rib cage… “You need to talk to someone,” Dean told me. I closed my eyes. “I know.”
