The scream split Sunday clean in half. One second you were in your parents’ kitchen in Toledo, Ohio, peeling potatoes beside a pot roast while your mother complained about grocery prices and your father hid behind his newspaper. The next second, the knife was clattering into the sink and you were running down the hall because no seven-year-old makes that kind of sound unless something terrible has happened. By the time you reached the den, your whole body already knew the truth before your mind could catch up.
Your daughter Valerie was sitting on a dining chair in the middle of the room, frozen and shaking, with blond hair scattered across the hardwood floor like torn ribbon. Half her head had been hacked unevenly with clippers, leaving pale strips of scalp exposed above one ear and jagged chunks hanging on the other side. Your sister Rachel stood behind her with a cordless trimmer in one hand and scissors in the other, laughing so hard she had to shift her weight to stay upright. On the side table, propped against a candle jar, her phone was recording.
