Chapter 3

"They look really well-made." Officer Rodriguez's initial reaction to the photos was normal enough, even appreciative.

I explained hopefully, "I made them myself as a birthday gift for my daughter."

The moment those words left my mouth, I watched both officers' faces change completely. Torres's gaze turned ice-cold and sharp, like she was looking at something revolting.

"Ma'am, do you think there's nothing wrong with your behavior?" Rodriguez asked coldly.

"I... I don't understand," I stammered. "They're just regular birthday cookies."

Torres snapped her notepad shut. "We need to do a welfare check on your daughter. We have concerns about potential child endangerment."

A chill ran down my spine. "What do you mean? I've never hurt my daughter!"

"We need to check on your daughter immediately," Rodriguez said gravely. "We're going to your house right now."

My heart sank. "But... my daughter isn't home."

Both officers immediately became alert. Torres demanded sharply, "Where is she?"

"My husband... took her away last night," I whispered.

"What?" Rodriguez shot up from his chair. "Why did your husband take the child?"

I stammered through an explanation: "Because of... because of what happened with the cookies, he wants to divorce me..."

The two officers exchanged an extremely serious look. Torres picked up the phone. "We need to contact your husband immediately to confirm the child's safety."

"Please provide his contact information and current address," Rodriguez said, pulling out his notepad.

With trembling hands, I gave them Herbert's phone number and Athena's address.

I could hear Herbert's voice through the phone: "What? Jacey went to the police station again? Oh God... Yes, I did take our daughter away last night. Her recent behavior has me very concerned about the child's safety..."

After hanging up, Torres looked at me coldly. "Your husband confirmed the child is safe, but he says he won't let you near your daughter until you get psychological treatment."

"Based on the current situation, we're going to be keeping an eye on you," Rodriguez announced. "Any problems involving your daughter, and you'll be our first suspect."

Those words hit me like a ton of bricks. I stared at them blankly, as if I'd misheard something. "Keeping an eye on me? Suspect?" I repeated these words, my voice trembling.

I desperately grabbed the officer's arm. "What crime have I committed? Please, just tell me!"

"This is insane! I just wanted to give my daughter a special birthday treat!" I cried out.

Rodriguez looked at my condition, his tone softening slightly. "Listen, maybe you should see a psychologist. A professional might be able to help you understand what's really happening."

"You can leave now," Torres said coldly. "Remember, we'll be watching. Any problems, and we'll find you first thing."

Finally, I stumbled out of the police station, feeling like my legs weren't my own.

Walking aimlessly down the street, everyone's reactions kept echoing in my mind. Herbert's disgust, Athena's disappointment, the neighbors' hostility, the strangers' anger, the police's suspicion...

If it were just one or two people, I could convince myself they were the crazy ones. But this many people... Could it all be coincidence?

Maybe... maybe I really am the problem?

I remembered feeling exhausted often over the past few months, sometimes spacing out for long periods, not even remembering what I'd done. Maybe I abused her while blacked out?

I desperately tried to recall every detail of my time with Dora, but the more I thought about it, the more certain fragments seemed blurry and unclear.

I remembered being busy in the kitchen for hours that day, but what exactly did I do? Besides kneading dough and cutting shapes, everything else seemed hazy. Those few hours felt like they'd been swallowed by something.

Did Dora cry that day? Was she scared? I tried desperately to remember, but those images were like looking through fog. I only remembered her face going pale when she saw the cookies, but what happened in between? Why couldn't I remember?

Maybe I have dissociative identity disorder? Maybe my other personality was hurting my daughter?

This thought made me shudder. If that were true, then Herbert's actions, everyone's hostility – it would all be justified.

I couldn't bear to think further. The police's suggestion kept echoing in my mind – see a psychologist. Maybe that really was my only option left.

It was completely dark now. I pulled out my phone to search for nearby psychological clinics and finally found one on the Upper East Side that was still open, offering after-hours emergency services. I practically stumbled my way there.

Dr. Tobias Aris's office was simple, with a few abstract paintings on the walls. He was a middle-aged man with wire-frame glasses, looking gentle and professional.

"Please tell me in detail about the problems you're experiencing," he said, picking up his pen to take notes.

I tremblingly recounted all the abnormal encounters, my voice getting smaller and smaller. Each time I mentioned others' reactions, I could feel that despair of being abandoned by the entire world.

"I think... I think maybe I'm the one with the problem," I said, nearly crying. "Maybe I really did hurt my daughter, but I don't remember it."

Dr. Aris put down his pen and looked directly at me. "I need to see those cookie photos that caused all the problems. This is important for my assessment."

My hand gripped my phone tightly. This was the last person who might understand me. If even he...

But I had no choice. I tremblingly handed over my phone.

Dr. Aris looked carefully at the cookie photos on the screen, his expression focused and calm. I held my breath, waiting for that familiar look of disgust to appear.

But minutes passed, and he still showed no abnormal reaction.

"These cookies are beautifully made," he said, looking up at me. "You made them yourself, didn't you?"

My heart almost stopped beating. This was the crucial moment. I opened my mouth but couldn't make a sound.

"Don't be afraid," his voice was surprisingly gentle. "I know you made these cookies. And I also know that telling people about this was the beginning of your nightmare."

Hearing those words, I nearly slid off my chair. He knew! He actually knew! And he didn't change his expression, didn't yell, didn't treat me like a monster!

"Please tell me!" I was practically begging. "Why is this happening? Why does everyone hate me?"

Dr. Aris slowly stood up and moved to the window, facing away from me.

He didn't speak for a long moment, then finally turned back.

"The truth is quite simple," he said. "It's because..."