The officer did.
“We’re going to need everyone to stay here while we sort this out.”
A paramedic had already taken my baby toward the ambulance. My shoulder and neck were burning beneath the temporary dressing, but the pain had become distant compared with the thought of my son lying somewhere outside this house while strangers tried to determine what had been done to him.
I started toward the door.
My husband caught my arm.
I pulled away immediately.
“Don’t touch me.”
He froze.
For the first time since he had entered the kitchen, he looked directly at me.
Not at the notebook.
Not at his mother.
Not at the police officer.
At me.
“I didn’t know she was going to do that,” he said.
“You knew about the notebook.”
He swallowed.
“I knew she was keeping records.”
The admission landed harder than I expected.
Behind him, his mother made a small irritated sound.
