I was finished asking his permission.
I told the dispatcher that my seven-year-old daughter had repeatedly lost consciousness, had unexplained injuries, and that I possessed an audio recording suggesting family members were deliberately involved.
The dispatcher instructed me to keep Maya safe and arranged for an ambulance and police officers to come to our home.
Then I heard Adrian’s car pull into the driveway.
I froze.
He wasn’t supposed to return until after midnight.
Downstairs, the garage door rumbled shut.
I moved quickly, locking Maya’s bedroom door and returning to mine to retrieve the recorder.
Before I could reach the hallway, Adrian called my name.
“Elena?”
His voice sounded perfectly normal.
I stepped onto the landing.
“You’re home early.”
He loosened his tie and smiled.
“Meeting finished ahead of schedule.”
Then he noticed my expression.
“What’s wrong?”
“Maya isn’t feeling well.”
His smile vanished.
“Did you call someone?”
The question came too quickly.
