Not legally yet.
But I couldn’t even think about touching that key again.
An agent accompanied me one day to collect clothes, documents, and some of Sophie’s belongings.
Going inside was like walking into another family’s house.
Everything was still where we’d left it.
The mugs, the fridge magnet, Mark’s jacket on a chair, one of Sophie’s pink stockings under the console.
Nothing screamed.
That was the horror.
The houses where the worst happens are almost never announced.
They still smell of detergent and breakfast.
I went up to the bathroom with the officer.
I wanted to get Sophie’s toothbrush and shampoos, but as soon as I went in, my heart sank.
The officer waited at the door.
I looked at the bathtub, the sink, the yellow tile, the fish-patterned curtain we had bought on sale, and suddenly I saw something unbearable.
Not the exact crime.
Not a specific scene.
I saw my blindness disguised in common objects.
I saw how much routine can conceal when habit acts as a blindfold.
In the cupboard under the sink they found more paper cups, two unlabeled bottles, and a small notebook with schedules, doses, and abbreviated observations.
The officer didn’t say anything.
She just photographed everything and called the investigator.
I leaned against the wall to keep from falling.
In Sophie’s room, I gathered up clothes without folding them properly.
I also took her pillow, because sometimes the only thing a child recognizes as safe fits under their arm.
As I left, I saw our anniversary photo in the hallway.
Mark had his arm around my waist, and the three of us were smiling.
Sophie was two and a half years old, wearing a yellow dress, and her face was covered in cake.
I put the photo in a box not to preserve it, but because I couldn’t stand leaving that version of us hanging there as if it were still true.
The investigation continued at its impersonal pace.
