Kayla’s scream woke me at 6:13 on Saturday morning.
I ran down the hall so fast I slammed my shoulder into the doorframe.
She was sitting upright in bed with both hands pressed against her head.
Her prom dress was still hanging from the closet door inside its plastic cover.
Her silver shoes sat neatly beneath it.
Prom was that night.
But Kayla’s hair was gone.
Blonde strands covered the pillow.
More were tangled in the sheets.
Soft clumps were scattered across the carpet.
It looked as though someone had tried to erase part of her while she slept.
To understand why, I need to explain what had been happening in our family for months.
My name is Rachel Adams.
My husband, David, and I had been married sixteen years.
We had two daughters.
Kayla was seventeen.
Reese was eight.
Despite the nine-year age difference, they were incredibly close.
Kayla had always treated Reese like a little shadow she was responsible for protecting.
She braided Reese’s hair before school.
Let her follow along when she went shopping.
Sat patiently through the endless pretend radio programs Reese recorded on a little pink tape recorder she had received for her seventh birthday.
Then Kayla met Steven.
He was a senior at her school.
Polished.
Confident.
Captain of the debate team.
Teachers liked him.
Parents trusted him.
And in the beginning, so did I.
He was always polite.
Always said please and thank you.
Always asked how my day had been.
He visited our house so often that eventually we gave him the spare-key code.
On Saturday mornings, he would let himself in and call upstairs as though he already belonged there.
Looking back, there were signs.
Kayla became quieter.
She stopped talking constantly at dinner.
She began wearing long sleeves even as the weather grew warmer.
She canceled plans with her closest friends.
She always had an excuse.
She was tired.
She had homework.
She didn’t feel well.
I noticed.
But I explained everything away.
That is one of the hardest things for me to admit now.
For months, Kayla had also been excited about prom.
She talked about her dress constantly.
The pictures.
The corsage.
Going with Steven.
Her classmates were even saying she might win prom queen.
The date was circled in pink on our kitchen calendar.
And now, on the morning of the dance, she stumbled into the bathroom, saw herself in the mirror, and screamed.
David found Reese sitting quietly on the edge of her own bed.
His electric razor was on the nightstand.
Her face was pale.
But she didn’t look sorry.
“Reese,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. “What did you do?”
She looked at me.
“I saved her the only way I knew how.”
I nearly lost my temper.
This was my eight-year-old daughter.
The same little girl who still climbed into Kayla’s bed during thunderstorms.
How could she possibly have an explanation for shaving her sister’s head the morning of prom?
Then the front door opened downstairs.
Steven had arrived.
He came upstairs and froze when he saw Kayla standing under the bright bathroom lights.
For half a second, his expression went completely blank.
Then concern appeared.
“Baby, don’t cry,” he said, reaching toward her. “We can fix it. Maybe get you a wig. You’ll still be beautiful tonight.”
Kayla collapsed against him, shaking.
Then Reese stepped forward.
“I cut her hair so she couldn’t go to prom with you.”
Steven gave a short laugh.
Too sharp.
Too loud.
Then Reese said,
“You hurt my sister all the time. I saw the purple marks where you grab her.”
Everything went silent.
Kayla stopped crying.
Steven’s arm tightened around her.
“Children make things up,” he said, looking at me. “Tell her, Kayla. Tell your mother how good I am to you.”
Kayla stared at the sink.
Reese walked over to my phone.
She opened the photo gallery.
There were pictures.
