“What?”
Maya looked at me.
I asked carefully.
“What do you mean?”
Brenna wiped her face.
“He says Brenna was better.”
I felt a chill.
“Who is Brenna?”
She looked confused.
“Me.”
“Then what does he mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“He says I changed.”
“When?”
“After Mom left.”
“How old were you?”
“Four.”
I looked at Maya.
Something was deeply wrong.
I asked.
“Does he call you something else?”
“Sometimes.”
“What?”
“Problem.”
My chest hurt.
Then.
“Replacement.”
I stopped breathing.
“Replacement?”
She nodded.
“He says the old Brenna listened.”
I tried to process.
Maybe psychological abuse.
Maybe grief.
Maybe delusion.
Then Brenna walked to a shelf.
She pulled out a photo album.
She opened it.
The first pages showed a toddler.
Same dark hair.
Same eyes.
Brenna.
Or someone who looked very much like her.
Then a woman.
Her mother, presumably.
Then Radley.
Smiling.
Normal family photographs.
The album stopped abruptly when Brenna was about four.
The rest of the pages were empty.
She pointed to the toddler.
“That’s old Brenna.”
I stared.
