Chapter 6 - The Broken Sister
Three weeks later, the snow in Cleveland had begun to melt, leaving behind muddy gray slush along the sidewalks.
I was officially discharged from St. Agnes Hospital and moved into a temporary, secured apartment arranged by the Victims' Assistance Program. Dana Mitchell visited me every afternoon, helping me navigate the endless sea of legal paperwork, medical appointments, and physical therapy sessions.
My physical injuries were slowly mending. The cast came off my wrist, replaced by a removable black brace, and my ribs no longer burned when I took deep breaths. But the hardest part of my recovery was still waiting for me in a brick building on the south side of the city.
The Cuyahoga Juvenile Detention and Treatment Facility.
"She’s been asking to see you, Claire," Dana told me as we sat in her car outside the facility. "The psychiatric team has stabilized her medication. She’s beginning to understand the reality of what happened in your house."
I looked at the heavy steel-reinforced windows of the facility. "Is she angry at me?"
"Mia is angry at the world," Dana said honestly. "She spent six years being manipulated by your parents into believing she was a irredeemable monster. Arthur and Susan fed her rage, turned her into their private enforcer against you, and convinced her that if she ever stepped out of line, they would have her institutionalized forever."
I pushed open the car door. "Let's go."
The visitation room at the juvenile facility was brighter than the federal interrogation room, painted in soft pastel blues, though the heavy shatterproof glass and stationing guards reminded you exactly where you were.
Mia sat at a small round table in the center of the room. She wore a simple gray sweatshirt, her dark hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. She looked smaller without her rage, thin and fragile.
When I walked in, she didn't look up immediately. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, her knuckles white.
"Mia," I said softly, sitting down in the chair across from her.
She slowly lifted her head. Her eyes were red-rimmed, devoid of the terrifying coldness I had seen on the day she threw the ceramic mug at my face.
"Claire," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Your... your shoulder. Is it okay?"
"It's healing," I said, leaning back in my chair. "The wrist brace comes off next week."
Mia pulled her hands up to her face, a tear slipping through her fingers. "I'm sorry," she sobbed, her shoulders shaking violently. "I'm so sorry, Claire. I didn't want to hurt you... I just wanted the key. I wanted to take the money and get us out of there. I thought... I thought if I got the hard drives, Dad wouldn't be able to hurt us anymore."
I watched my sixteen-year-old sister break down into absolute, genuine grief. For six years, I had hated her. I had feared her steps in the hallway, feared her sudden violent outbursts, feared the way she looked at me when Dad rewarded her for keeping me in line.
But looking at her now, I realized the ultimate cruelty of Arthur and Susan Walsh: they hadn't just abused us. They had turned two sisters against each other, turning one into a victim and the other into a weapon, so that neither of us would ever realize who the real enemy was.
"Mia," I said, reaching across the table and resting my hand over her trembling fingers. "Look at me."
She looked up, her face wet with tears.
"What happened on the stairs... what happened in that house... it was a nightmare," I said, my voice steady and clear. "You hurt me, Mia. Badly. And you have to take responsibility for that with the doctors and the court."
Mia nodded frantically. "I know. I'll do whatever they say. I'll stay here as long as I have to."
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"But," I continued, squeezing her hand, "you don't have to be who Dad made you to be anymore. They are in prison, Mia. They are never coming back. If you are willing to get help, if you are willing to work through this... I won't abandon you."
Mia let out a deep, gut-wrenching sob, holding my hand as if it were the only anchor keeping her from drifting away into the dark.
