Chapter 8 - The Pretend Game
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That evening at 7:00 PM, I returned to our Phoenix home alone.
Matilda was safely staying with Henrietta, guarded by two private security personnel Lincoln had arranged.
When I walked through the front door, Pamela was sitting on the sofa in the living room, a glass of red wine in her hand. She looked visibly stressed, her eyes searching my face the moment I walked in.
“Where is Matilda?” she asked immediately, standing up. “Why isn't she with you?”
I put my keys on the entryway table and let out a long, exhausted sigh, putting on the performance of a lifetime.
“Henrietta insisted on keeping her for the weekend,” I said, rubbing my temples as if overwhelmed. “She noticed how jumpy Matilda was acting and started lecturing me about how I’m not handling Matilda’s emotional issues properly.”
Pamela’s posture relaxed slightly, a hint of satisfaction touching her eyes. “I told you, Gregory. Henrietta judges everything. But... did Matilda have another episode at her house?”
“She was very agitated,” I lied, walking into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. “She started crying and shaking again. Pamela... I hate to admit it, but I’m getting worried. This is the third time this month she’s acted like this.”
Pamela walked into the kitchen, placing a soothing hand on my back. Her touch made my stomach twist, but I played along.
“Oh, darling,” Pamela cooed softly, her voice full of deceptive warmth. “I know how hard this is for you. You’re holding onto Beatrice’s memory, and it’s blinding you to what’s happening right in front of us. Matilda needs professional help.”
“What kind of help?” I asked, turning to face her.
“I was actually talking to a specialist recommended by a friend,” Pamela said smoothly, taking a sip of her wine. “A child psychologist named Dr. Aris in San Diego. He specializes in pediatric behavioral disorders. Maybe we should take her down there for an evaluation next week?”
It was the exact name Lincoln had uncovered earlier.
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“Maybe you’re right,” I murmured, looking into her eyes. “Maybe I should let you handle this.”
Pamela smiled—a triumphant, cruel little smile that she tried quickly to hide behind her wine glass. “Trust me, Gregory. I only want what’s best for our family.”
