The officer’s hand stopped on the page, and my husband’s face changed before anyone said another word.
My son’s name was there, but it was not the first name.
The notebook had been sitting on that kitchen counter like an ordinary object all afternoon. A black cover. Bent corners. A few dark stains near the spine. My mother-in-law had fought harder to reach it than she had fought to explain what she had done to my newborn.
Now I understood why.
The officer turned another page carefully, photographing each section before touching it again. There were names, dates, measurements, times, and short notes written in my mother-in-law’s cramped handwriting. Some entries went back months.
My husband stood beside the kitchen island, watching the officer read.
“There are other names,” he said again.
His voice was barely audible.
I looked at him. “What names?”
He didn’t answer.
