Talbot was writing.

-I didn’t understand. I thought maybe she had a rash. A skin condition. Something embarrassing. At nap time, I helped her take off the jacket.

She looked at me.

-There were marks on her back. Little bruises. In pairs. And three tiny red dots. Like scabs.

Needle marks.

-What did you do?

-I took a photograph. For our incident file. That’s our policy. Then I called the primary contact on her file.

-My husband.

-Mr. Vaughn. Yes.

-What did he say?

Priya took a breath.

-He thanked me. He was very kind. He said he was so glad I’d called. He said he’d been noticing marks too. He said he was very worried about the situation at home. He said his wife had some issues. From the military. He said he was handling it with a lawyer and a family therapist, and that it was a very delicate situation, and that if I called DCS, it might make things worse for Chloe because his wife might react badly.

-And you believed him.

-He sounded so worried. He sounded like a good father trying to protect his kid. He asked me to call him directly if I ever saw anything else. Not you. Him. He said he was keeping a record for the court.

She opened the folder and took out a stack of papers.

-I called him four more times. Every time there were new marks. Always on a Tuesday or a Thursday. I printed out my notes and my photos. I kept copies.

She laid the papers on the table.

Dates. Times. Descriptions in neat handwriting. Photographs from the preschool’s tablet camera. Small pale back. Purple ovals. Tiny red dots.

Tuesday, September second. Thursday, September fourth. Tuesday, September ninth. Thursday, September eighteenth. Tuesday, September thirtieth.

Every one of them the morning after a day with Gertrude.

Talbot took the papers and studied them for a long time.

-Ms. Raman, you’re a mandated reporter.

Priya’s eyes filled.

-I know. I know. I should have called. I should have called the first time. He convinced me it was being handled. He said a call from me would make it worse. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Vaughn.

I looked at the photographs.

Five weeks.

Five weeks of my husband taking her calls and writing down her observations and adding them to his log.

-Ms. Raman.

-Yes.

-My husband has photographs of bruises on Chloe that he’s going to give to a judge at eight o’clock this morning. He’s going to say I caused them. Do you know where he got those photographs?

She looked at me.

Then she looked at her own folder.

Then at Talbot.

-I sent them to him. He asked me to. He said they were for the court case. Against you.

Talbot set down her pen.

-Ms. Raman, is there a record of you sending those photographs?

-Email. From my school account. With the dates in the subject lines.

-Every one?

-Every one.

Talbot looked at me.

-So the evidence your husband’s lawyer is about to file to prove you hurt your daughter is photographs taken by her preschool teacher the morning after days your mother-in-law had sole custody of her. And he solicited those photographs while telling the teacher not to report.

-Yes.

Talbot closed her binder.

-I need to make a phone call.

At 7:52, I went home.

Detective Marquez drove. Officer Whitfield followed in a patrol car. A second patrol car followed her.

The judge had signed the search warrant at 6:40.

Christopher and Gertrude were still at the hospital. Detained now. Not arrested yet. Waiting.

Delacroix was not at the hospital anymore. He’d left at seven. To go file the emergency custody petition at eight.

Marquez had let him.

-Why?

-Because once he files it, it’s a sworn pleading. Every word in it becomes a statement to the court. Every photograph in it becomes evidence he submitted under oath. If he files a petition claiming you abused your daughter, supported by photos he knows were taken after his mother had her, I want him to have done it.

-You’re letting him walk into it.

-I’m letting him finish walking into it. He’s already halfway in.

I looked out the window. Phoenix in the early morning. Palm trees. Strip malls. Sprinklers on the medians. The mountains purple in the distance.

-Detective. The video. Christopher said it’s not my kid. He said that was Gertrude’s whole point.

-I heard it.

-Chloe is his. There’s no question. I’ve never been with anyone else.

-I believe you.

-Then why does he think she isn’t?

Marquez glanced at me.

-Somebody told him.

-Gertrude.

-Probably.

-How do you convince a man his daughter isn’t his?

-You show him something that looks like proof.