Chapter 2 - THE RED LIGHT
Kerensa’s scalp was not seriously injured.
That was the first piece of good news.
The pediatrician found:
A superficial clipper scrape.
Mild skin irritation.
No deep cuts.
No signs of head trauma.
No other acute physical injury.
Then she checked the rest of Kerensa.
That was when I stopped feeling relieved.
Two small bruises near her upper arms.
One older bruise on the back of her thigh.
Nothing individually unusual in an active four-year-old.
But when the doctor asked what happened, Kerensa said:
“Meliora squeezes when I move.”
My stomach tightened.
The doctor asked:
“When do you move?”
“When the light is on.”
There it was again.
The red light.
The pediatrician did not interrogate.
Good.
She asked enough to determine a child-safety referral was appropriate.
Then a social worker came.
Then police.
I told them everything.
Including my slap.
Including the clippers.
Including running them through Meliora’s hair.
I did not say:
I was protecting my daughter.
Not as an excuse.
Kerensa had already been behind me.
I said:
“I was furious and I retaliated.”
The officer nodded.
“That may constitute assault.”
“I understand.”
I did.
Or I was beginning to.
The fact that Meliora had done something cruel to Kerensa did not convert revenge into lawful protection.
Separate acts.
Separate accountability.
Detective Mara Ellis took over the child-related investigation.
She interviewed Kerensa with a specialist.
I watched from another room.
The interviewer asked:
“What happens when the red light comes on?”
Kerensa hugged a stuffed rabbit the hospital gave her.
“Meliora says smile.”
“What happens if you don’t smile?”
“We do again.”
“What do you do again?”
“Everything.”
“What kind of things?”
Kerensa thought.
“Breakfast.”
“Breakfast?”
“She puts it back.”
“Puts what back?”
“The food.”
“Why?”
“Because I ate before she says.”
My throat tightened.
The interviewer remained calm.
“What else?”
“Hair.”
“What about hair?”
“She brushes and brushes.”
“Does it hurt?”
Kerensa nodded.
“Do you tell her?”
“Yes.”
“What does she say?”
“Pretty takes work.”
I closed my eyes.
Then the interviewer asked:
“Does anybody watch the videos?”
Kerensa shrugged.
“Ladies.”
“What ladies?”
“Phone ladies.”
No clearer.
At four, “ladies” could mean anyone on a screen.
Then:
“Does Daddy know?”
Kerensa immediately shook her head.
“No. Meliora says Daddy gets sad if I ruin work.”
That sentence hurt more than the accusation I expected.
Meliora had used my job.
My travel.
My absences.
She made them into a reason Kerensa should obey.
Detective Ellis met me afterward.
“We need to preserve the house.”
“For what?”
“Potential recording equipment, digital devices, and anything associated with the child’s statements.”
“Do you think she was filming abuse?”
“We don’t know.”
Good.
No dramatic certainty.
“What about the clippers?”
“Preserved.”
“What about me?”
“The prosecutor will review your conduct separately.”
“Fine.”
I meant it.
Then:
“Can Kerensa come home with me?”
“Not to the same residence tonight if Meliora remains there.”
That was simple.
I owned a furnished apartment near my office.
Rarely used.
We went there.
Kerensa wore a knit cap the hospital gave us.
She would not remove it.
Not even to sleep.
I did not ask.
At 11:30 p.m., Naomi Price arrived.
My attorney.
She had represented my consulting company for six years.
She looked at the cap.
Then at me.
“What happened?”
I told her.
All of it.
When I reached my retaliation, she closed her eyes.
“You shaved her hair?”
“One strip.”
“You understand why that’s terrible for us legally.”
“Yes.”
“And personally?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
No lecture.
Then I showed her the photographs of the empty camera mount.
Naomi zoomed in.
“Do you recognize the hardware?”
“No.”
She did not either.
Then she asked:
“Has Meliora ever talked about family content?”
“What?”
“Social media. Parenting. Lifestyle videos.”
“She posts things.”
“What things?”
“Restaurants. Clothes. Home decor. Sometimes Kerensa.”
“How often?”
“I don’t know.”
That answer became humiliating very quickly.
I barely used social media.
Meliora used it constantly.
I knew she had around thirty thousand followers.
Maybe fifty.
I had never checked.
Naomi opened her phone.
Searched.
Meliora’s public account appeared.
Forty-eight thousand followers.
Mostly:
Fashion.
House interiors.
Recipes.
Travel.
Very little Kerensa.
A birthday photograph.
Christmas.
One pumpkin-patch video.
Nothing alarming.
Naomi scrolled.
Then stopped.
“There’s a link.”
“What?”
“Juniper House.”
The link opened to a polished website.
Password-protected.
Landing page:
PRIVATE FAMILY COMMUNITY.
Membership application.
Brand collaborations.
No public child images visible.
Naomi looked at me.
“Do you know what this is?”
“No.”
Then my phone vibrated.
An email.
Sender:
Juniper House Media LLC.
Subject:
URGENT: TOMORROW’S PRODUCTION.
Production.
I opened it.
Hi Godric,
Meliora advised that Kerensa may be unavailable for tomorrow’s scheduled shoot. Please confirm whether we should release crew and stylist.
I read it twice.
“What crew?”
May you like
Naomi looked at me.
“I think we just found the first person you need to ask.”
