I did not clean the sink.
I did not move the wrapping paper.
I did not close the cream jar.
By late afternoon, the house smelled like cold coffee, wet cotton, and the sweet artificial scent from the skincare set.
Then headlights swept across the front window.
I stood so quickly that my knee struck the coffee table.
Daniel came through the front door.
He was not alone.
Two police officers entered behind him.
Their attention moved first to the open box, then to the kitchen, and finally to the empty space beside the fireplace where Richard had been standing.
Daniel’s face was pale.
His coat was still damp from holding Emma at the sink.
I searched behind him for our daughter.
“She’s still at the hospital,” he said. “They’re keeping her there for now.”
I wanted to ask a dozen questions.
Before I could speak, one officer addressed me.
