Chapter 2
I almost dropped the phone.
The video was only forty-seven seconds long.
It came from a tiny camera built into the old baby monitor above Sophie’s bookshelf.
Lauren had apparently forgotten it was connected to a separate system.
The recording showed Sophie sitting on her bed.
Her pink pajamas hung loosely around her shoulders.
Lauren stood in front of her holding the same plastic syringe Maria had photographed.
Sophie shook her head.
“No, Mommy.”
Lauren’s voice was cold.
Not angry.
Worse.
Controlled.
“You know what happens when you fight me.”
Sophie began crying.
“It hurts my tummy.”
“Open your mouth.”
“No.”
Lauren grabbed her chin.
My chest tightened so hard I could barely breathe.
Then Sophie said something that turned every thought in my head into noise.
“Daddy said medicine has a name.”
Lauren froze.
For one second, she stared at Sophie.
Then she leaned closer.
“Daddy isn’t here.”
Sophie cried harder.
“You told me Daddy doesn’t want me anymore.”
I stopped breathing.
Lauren pushed the syringe toward her mouth.
The video ended.
I replayed that sentence.
Again.
Again.
Again.
You told me Daddy doesn’t want me anymore.
I called Maria immediately.
“Get Sophie out of that house.”
“I tried.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mrs. Lauren locked the upstairs hallway door from the other side.”
“What?”
“She said Sophie needs rest and told me I’m not allowed upstairs anymore.”
My hands clenched.
“Call the police.”
Maria’s breathing changed.
“Sir…”
“What?”
“I already tried from the kitchen phone.”
“And?”
“Mrs. Lauren came downstairs before I finished dialing. She took the phone away.”
That made no sense.
Unless Lauren knew Maria was watching.
“Where are you now?”
“In the laundry room.”
“Can you leave?”
“Yes.”
“Then leave.”
“But Sophie—”
“You can’t help her if Lauren knows you called me.”
Maria started crying again.
“I’m sorry.”
“Listen to me. You did the right thing. Go somewhere safe. Send me every video, every picture, everything you have.”
I hung up and called 911 from Boston.
The dispatcher transferred me twice because the emergency was in another state.
I explained that my four-year-old daughter might be receiving an unknown drug from my wife.
I explained that the cameras had been disconnected.
I explained the video.
The dispatcher told me officers would be sent for a welfare check.
I should have felt relief.
I didn’t.
Because Lauren was smart.
Very smart.
She could smile while lying so calmly that sometimes even I questioned what I remembered.
And she knew how to perform.
Twenty minutes later, my phone rang.
Lauren.
I stared at her name.
Then answered.
“Hey.”
Her voice sounded cheerful.
Too cheerful.
“The police are here.”
My stomach dropped.
“Why?”
“They said someone reported that Sophie might be in danger.”
She laughed softly.
“Can you believe that?”
I said nothing.
“Daniel?”
“I’m here.”
“Did you call them?”
I looked at the boarding pass on my screen.
My flight left in fifty minutes.
“No.”
Silence.
Just half a second.
Then she said, “Interesting.”
“What did they say?”
“They checked Sophie. She’s fine.”
“Put her on the phone.”
“She’s sleeping.”
“Wake her.”
“No.”
My jaw tightened.
“Lauren.”
“She’s sick, Daniel. She needs rest.”
“What is she taking?”
A pause.
“Children’s medicine.”
“What kind?”
“Why are you interrogating me?”
“Because our daughter is four.”
“And I’m her mother.”
The sweetness disappeared from her voice.
There it was.
The Lauren I knew existed behind closed doors.
“I asked what medicine you gave her.”
“She has a fever.”
“What’s the name?”
Another pause.
Then she said, “I threw away the box.”
My blood went cold.
I closed my eyes.
“Why are the labels peeled off the bottle?”
Silence.
Not a sound.
When Lauren finally spoke, her voice was almost a whisper.
“How do you know about a bottle?”
I knew immediately I had made a mistake.
I should have kept quiet.
I should have waited until I was home.
“Daniel?”
“Maria mentioned medicine before I left.”
“Maria?”
I heard footsteps through the phone.
Then a door opening.
“Lauren, where are you going?”
She ignored me.
I heard another door.
Then Lauren shouted.
“Maria!”
No answer.
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“You talked to her.”
“I said she mentioned medicine.”
“When?”
“Earlier.”
Lauren breathed slowly.
“She’s gone.”
I said nothing.
Then Lauren laughed.
It was quiet and frightening.
“You’re coming home, aren’t you?”
I looked toward the airport gate.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She hung up.
Ten seconds later, Maria texted me.
SHE KNOWS.
Then another message.
I’M OUTSIDE.
Another.
POLICE LEFT.
Another.
SOPHIE IS STILL INSIDE.
I called the responding precinct.
They told me Sophie had appeared sleepy but responsive.
Lauren said she had a mild stomach virus.
There were no visible injuries.
The officer saw an over-the-counter children’s medication bottle.
I nearly shouted.
“What bottle?”
“I don’t have that information, sir.”
“Did they check the bottle Maria photographed?”
“We can’t search a residence without consent, a warrant, or probable cause.”
“She is drugging my daughter!”
“Sir, if you have video evidence, bring it to the station.”
“I’m in Boston!”
The officer’s voice softened.
“Then send it to our evidence email.”
I did.
I sent everything.
The baby monitor footage.
Maria’s photograph.
Screenshots showing every security camera offline.
Then I boarded my flight.
I spent two and a half hours staring at the seat in front of me.
I thought about every strange thing from the last year.
Sophie becoming unusually sleepy after Lauren gave her vitamins.
Lauren insisting I was too busy to attend pediatric appointments.
Lauren telling me Sophie cried whenever I traveled because she was “too attached.”
Then I remembered something from three weeks earlier.
Sophie had crawled into my lap while Lauren was showering.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Are you going away forever?”
I had laughed gently.
“Of course not.”
She looked relieved.
“Mommy said maybe.”
At the time, Lauren claimed Sophie misunderstood a conversation.
I believed her.
That memory made me sick.
When the plane landed, Maria had sent eleven more messages.
The last one was only two words.
THEY LEFT.
I called her while running through the airport.
“What do you mean they left?”
“Mrs. Lauren put Sophie in the car twenty minutes ago.”
“Where did they go?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you see which car?”
“The black SUV.”
I called Lauren.
Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
I opened the family location app.
Her phone location was disabled.
Sophie’s tablet was offline.
The SUV’s tracking account rejected my password.
Someone had changed it.
I reached my car and drove toward our house faster than I should have.
When I turned onto our street, I saw Maria standing beside a police cruiser.
She ran toward me before I had fully stopped.
“I’m sorry.”
“Where is Sophie?”
“I don’t know.”
“What happened after the police left?”
Maria looked toward the house.
“Mrs. Lauren was furious. She packed one suitcase.”
“For herself?”
“I don’t know. Then a man came.”
I stared at her.
“What man?”
“I have seen him before.”
My heart pounded.
“Where?”
Maria swallowed.
“At your house.”
“When?”
Her eyes filled with fear.
“On the nights you work late.”
Something inside me cracked.
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“What did he look like?”
“Tall. Dark hair. Maybe forty.”
“Did he leave with Lauren?”
“Yes.”
“And Sophie?”
Maria nodded.
“Yes.”
I turned toward the front door.
A police officer stopped me.
“Mr. Carter?”
“Yes.”
“We need to speak with you.”
“My daughter is missing.”
“We know.”
“Then why are we standing here?”
The officer lifted a clear evidence bag.
Inside was the unlabeled bottle from Sophie’s room.
“We entered after your housekeeper reported hearing glass break and found the rear door open.”
I stared at the bottle.
“Do you know what’s in it?”
“It’s being tested.”
“Where’s my daughter?”
“We’re working on it.”
I pushed past him and entered the house.
It looked normal.
That was almost worse.
Sophie’s crayons were still on the kitchen table.
Her little sneakers were beside the mudroom door.
One half-eaten strawberry sat on a plate.
Then I noticed a white envelope on the counter.
My name was written across it.
DANIEL.
I opened it.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Lauren’s handwriting.
You should have stayed in Boston.
Now you’ve forced me to finish this early.
My vision blurred.
Below that was another line.
If you want Sophie safe, stop asking questions.
And underneath those words was a photograph.
Sophie sleeping in the back seat of our SUV.
Beside her was the mystery man Maria had described.
His face was turned toward the camera.
I knew him.
I had seen him at family Christmas parties.
At Sophie’s birthday.
At our wedding.
May you like
My wife’s older brother.
Michael.
