A collective gasp rippled through the room. Pastor John, momentarily thrown off balance by the child’s words, steadied himself and gently knelt to Emma’s level. His face was a mask of concern and bewilderment, reflecting the tension that clasped the room in a vice grip.
“Emma, sweetheart,” he said softly, trying to maintain an air of calm, “what do you mean?”
Emma turned to look at me, her innocent eyes searching for reassurance. I nodded, choking on the lump in my throat, urging her to continue. The truth had to come out—it was the only way to break free from the chains of lies and deception.
She turned back to face the pastor, her voice unwavering. “Grandma put something in the bottles. It smelled funny. She said it was to help them sleep.”
Diane’s face drained of color, her carefully crafted facade crumbling in an instant. She attempted to intercept, her voice shrill: “Emma, darling, you’re confused. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
