Trevor stepped forward, his face fixed in a brittle calm that was rapidly unraveling. “Mom… what is she talking about? What blue jug?”
“Nothing!” Diane darted her eyes around the room, searching for support—but relatives who had comforted her moments earlier were now backing away, horror spreading across their faces. “She’s four! She’s making up stories!”
“I saw the blue jug,” Emma sobbed. “She gave me cookies and said it was our secret game. She said if I told anyone, Mommy would go away forever.”
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