Straight at him.
“Daddy.”
The word broke something open inside me.
“I saw you put the baby there.”
The baby cried again, thin and fragile.
My hands trembled so badly I nearly dropped him.
Daniel laughed—but it came out wrong. Hollow.
“No… no, honey. That’s not funny.”
She didn’t laugh.
“I woke up when I heard the front door,” she said quietly. “I looked out my window. You were outside… holding something.”
My chest tightened.
“I thought maybe it was a kitten,” she added. “For me.”
God.
“But when I went outside later… I heard crying. And he was there.”
Silence.
Thick. Suffocating.
Daniel took a step back. “I didn’t do this.”
I looked at him—and for the first time that morning, something inside me shifted.
Not fear.
Not confusion.
Doubt.
“Daniel…” I whispered. “Why would she say that?”
“Because she’s scared!” he snapped—too fast, too sharp. Then softened, like he realized it. “She must’ve misunderstood. Izzy… please. Just call 911.”
