Chapter 2 - The Gaslight
Ten minutes later, the flashing red and blue lights of two squad cars illuminated our suburban front yard.
I had refused to leave the locked bedroom until I heard the heavy, authoritative voices of the police officers calling out from the foyer. When I finally walked downstairs, carrying Emma wrapped tightly in a thick comforter, my blood ran completely cold.
David was sitting on the living room sofa. He had poured himself a glass of water. He looked completely relaxed, wearing his favorite cardigan, shaking his head with a sad, weary expression as he spoke to a male officer.
"...she's been under a lot of stress lately," David was saying. "Post-partum anxiety that just never really went away. She gets paranoid. I was just giving my daughter a bath, trying to teach her how to hold her breath for her upcoming swim class, and my wife burst in screaming."
The male officer looked at me, a flicker of skepticism in his eyes.
A female detective, Officer Ramirez, stepped forward. She looked at Emma, who was trembling against my chest, her eyes wide with terror as she stared at her father.
"Ma'am," Officer Ramirez said gently. "Your husband says you had a panic attack. Can you tell me what you saw?"
"He's lying," I said, my voice trembling but furious. "He had a stopwatch. He had a dropper full of chemicals. He was forcing her to take it and timing her."
David sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. "A dropper? Honey, that was her liquid vitamin C. And the stopwatch was on my phone. We were playing a game. Ask Emma. Emma, sweetie, tell the nice officers we were just playing the submarine game."
Emma shrank back, burying her face in my shoulder. She wouldn't speak.
The male officer closed his notepad. "Look, folks. We don't have signs of physical abuse here. It sounds like a domestic misunderstanding. We can't arrest a man for giving his kid a bath."
"No!" I shouted. "Check his pockets! Check the bathroom! I know what I saw!"
"I don't have anything in my pockets," David said, standing up and turning them inside out. They were empty. He had ditched the evidence before the police arrived.
The cops were preparing to leave. They were going to leave me alone in this house with him.
My mind raced back to the laundry basket. The powdery residue. The strange, medicinal smell. David had been doing this for weeks. A man that meticulous wouldn't flush his supply; he would hide it.
"The bathroom vent," I blurted out, remembering the faint rattling sound I had heard nights before when David was 'cleaning up' after bath time.
Officer Ramirez paused. She looked at the desperation in my eyes. "Stay here," she ordered her partner.
She walked upstairs. Three agonizing minutes passed in absolute silence. David's relaxed posture finally stiffened. He stared at me, the mask slipping entirely, revealing a look of pure, predatory hatred.
Footsteps came down the stairs.
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Officer Ramirez walked into the living room. She was holding a clear plastic bag. Inside was a digital stopwatch, three empty glass vials, a plastic dropper, and a small, unmarked amber bottle filled with clear liquid.
"Mr. Hayes," Officer Ramirez said, her hand dropping to the cuffs on her belt. "Turn around and place your hands behind your back."
