Chapter 2 - WHAT THE POLICE TOOK
The police took the USB before I ever saw what was on it.
That irritated me.
It was also correct.
Detective Mara Ellis arrived with a uniformed officer twenty-three minutes after my call.
Yes, her first name was the same as my late wife’s.
I noticed.
She did too when I stumbled over it.
“No relation,” she said.
“Obviously.”
I was not at my best.
Poppy sat under a blanket on the sofa.
A neighbor, Mrs. Halpern, stayed with her while the officers separated the adults.
Celestine had a red cheek and a cut across one palm from the broken lamp.
I told them I slapped her.
Immediately.
No self-defense claim.
No elaborate justification.
“She threatened my daughter. I lost control.”
Detective Ellis looked at me.
“Was she attacking either of you when you struck her?”
“No.”
“Was she attempting to take the USB?”
“She had stepped toward me earlier. When I hit her, no.”
“Good. Keep answering like that.”
Meaning:
accurately.
Celestine told police I had assaulted her because she “disposed of an unhygienic toy.”
She denied threatening Poppy.
The security camera in our living room settled that.
I had installed it after Mara died because Poppy sometimes sleepwalked and the front hall connected directly to the room.
It caught the fireplace.
The doll.
Celestine’s sentence.
Next time, it will be you.
It also caught my slap.
No one got to edit reality.
The USB went into an evidence bag.
Not because Celestine’s threat automatically proved whatever was inside involved a crime.
Because she had spontaneously referred to it as a recording and had just tried to destroy the object hiding it.
That created enough reason to preserve it.
My lawyer, Daniel Mercer, arrived before Celestine left.
He gave me one instruction.
“Do not discuss what you think is on the drive.”
“I don’t know what is.”
“Excellent. Keep it that way.”
Celestine’s sister picked her up.
She left without the engagement ring.
Not because I demanded it.
She removed it herself and placed it on the console table.
Good.
No theatrical throwing.
I did not want it.
The police later cited me for misdemeanor assault.
The prosecutor had discretion.
I expected consequences.
Fine.
Celestine faced investigation for the threat toward Poppy and potential attempted destruction of evidence depending on what the doll actually contained.
No one charged her with attempted murder because she threw cloth into a fireplace.
No one charged me with heroic righteousness.
Reality remained irritatingly specific.
After everyone left, I sat beside Poppy.
She held what remained of the doll.
One side black.
Stomach open.
“Can you fix her?”
“I can try.”
“Mommy made her.”
“I know.”
Her fingers traced the burned fabric.
Then:
“Celestine knew.”
My stomach tightened.
“Knew what?”
“That there was a secret.”
“Did Mommy tell you?”
Poppy nodded.
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Before Mommy went to heaven?”
Another nod.
I did not correct her theology.
Not tonight.
“What exactly did she say?”
Poppy squeezed the doll.
“Mommy put the shiny thing in there.”
“The USB?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did she say about Celestine?”
Poppy looked toward the doorway.
As if Celestine might still be listening.
“She said if Celestine asks about Dolly, say I lost her.”
My heartbeat changed.
“Did Celestine ever ask?”
Poppy nodded.
“When?”
“Lots.”
I stared.
Celestine had been in our home almost every day after Mara died.
First as friend.
Then as comfort.
Then something more.
I tried to remember every time she had asked Poppy to clean her room.
Every time she had offered to donate old toys.
Every time Poppy screamed when Celestine touched the rag doll.
I had thought grief made Poppy possessive.
Maybe Poppy had been protecting something.
Maybe my dead wife had placed responsibility on a child far too young to carry it.
Both could be true.
The next morning Detective Ellis called.
“The drive is encrypted.”
“Can you open it?”
“We’ll image it first.”
“How long?”
“Long enough that calling me every hour won’t help.”
“Was planning every forty minutes.”
She ignored that.
Then:
“One more thing. The plastic wrapping around the drive has handwriting on it.”
My chest tightened.
“What does it say?”
“Not enough to tell us contents.”
“What does it say?”
A pause.
May you like
“Mara.”
My wife had signed the package herself.
