Chapter 2 - The Photograph That Shouldn’t Exist
Dana asked Monica to leave.
My sister refused at first.
“This is my nephew.”
Dana’s voice remained professional.
“This is an active investigation.”
“You need to step outside.”
Monica looked at me.
Her eyes were no longer concerned.
They were furious.
“You always think your uniform makes you smarter than everyone.”
I said nothing.
She left.
Dana closed the door.
Then she reopened the CPS file.
“I cannot confirm the reporter’s identity.”
“I understand.”
“But I can tell you the materials you provided require follow-up.”
She placed one printed photograph on the table.
It showed Eli standing in our upstairs bathroom.
His shirt was off.
A bruise near his shoulder was visible.
The image appeared to have been taken through the partially open door.
I stared at it.
“When was this submitted?”
“Last week.”
My skin went cold.
The bruise came from the dining-table accident.
I had taken Eli to his pediatrician the next morning because it looked worse than it felt.
The medical report documented everything.
That did not disturb me.
The photograph did.
“I didn’t take this.”
Dana watched my face.
“Who could have?”
I enlarged it.
The angle came from the hallway.
Someone had been standing outside the bathroom.
I remembered the day.
A Saturday.
My mother had visited.
So had Monica.
Monica claimed she needed to borrow my printer.
She had stayed upstairs for several minutes while I made lunch.
Dana wrote the date.
“Anyone else?”
“My mother.”
“Your son’s father?”
My jaw tightened.
“Deceased.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Four years ago.”
Dana nodded.
She knew the rest from the file.
Lieutenant Commander Daniel Bennett had died during a training accident when Eli was eleven months old.
I had raised our son alone since then.
Dana turned to another photograph.
This one showed Eli asleep on my couch.
A blanket had fallen halfway to the floor.
The caption attached to the CPS report read:
Child frequently left unconscious in common areas while mother works.
I almost laughed.
“He fell asleep watching Finding Nemo.”
Dana nodded.
Then she showed me the metadata page.
The image had been stripped before submission.
But whoever collected the photographs had done it over months.
Not days.
Some showed scraped knees.
A messy kitchen after breakfast.
Laundry waiting to be folded.
One showed Eli crying outside preschool.
Another showed him sitting alone at a restaurant table while I had apparently “abandoned” him.
I remembered that one.
I had walked ten feet away to pay the check.
Someone was building a story out of ordinary life.
Dana closed the file.
“There’s one image I need you to explain.”
She turned the page.
I stopped breathing.
It showed the inside of my locked home office.
On my desk was a Navy legal file.
The photograph had been taken from behind my chair.
Only three people besides me had ever been inside that room.
My mother.
May you like
Monica.
And my closest friend, Lieutenant Commander Sarah Collins.
