“You dragged Maisie into the woods like one of your animals,” I say. “Then you hit her on the head with a rock, removed her clothes, and carved wings into her back. You did it with Owen.” “And now she’s a beautiful bird, not a dirty little girl,” Isabel says triumphantly. “And you,” I say to David. “You knew what your children were, and you did nothing about it.” “My daughter is an artist,” he replies. “A glorious artist.”
