Chapter 6 - Detective Morales
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A hospital social worker named Denise walked into the waiting room, accompanied by a tall, sharp-eyed police officer.
The officer wore a dark uniform, a golden badge pinned to her chest that read: Det. Morales, Chicago Police Department.
"Rachel Miller?" Detective Morales asked, stepping forward with a leather notebook in hand. "I’m leading the special victims investigation. Can we talk in a private room?"
I led them into a small consultation office down the hall.
"Tell me everything from the moment you woke up this morning," Detective Morales instructed, opening her pen.
I laid out the entire timeline. I told her about the blueberry pancakes. About Emma’s excitement. About Lily’s special chair with the purple cushion. About going upstairs for ten minutes. And then, the metallic crash that shattered my life.
"When you ran downstairs, what did you see?" Morales asked.
"My daughter was motionless on the floor," I choked out, tears swelling in my eyes again. "The skillet was beside her head. Eggs were stuck to the rim. Vanessa was standing by the stove with her arms folded. My mother told me to stop shouting because I was 'disturbing the mood.'"
I pulled out my phone and handed it directly to Detective Morales.
"Read the messages," I said.
Morales scrolled through the missed calls, the voicemails from my father, and finally stopped at the text message from my mother: I told Vanessa to handle Emma before you came downstairs.
Detective Morales’s face hardened. The sympathetic expression vanished, replaced by the sharp focus of a seasoned investigator.
"Did your mother ever explain what 'handle' meant?" Morales asked.
"No," I replied. "But Vanessa has always hated when Emma takes attention away from Lily."
"Has your sister ever been physical with your daughter before?"
I paused. At first, my brain wanted to say no. We were a normal family, wasn't that right?
But then, terrible, suppressed memories began floating to the surface like corpses in a river.
Christmas night. Emma reaching for a chocolate chip cookie before dinner. Vanessa grabbing my four-year-old’s wrist so hard it left red marks, snapping at her to learn her place.
I remembered complaining to my mother that night, but my mother had just laughed and poured more wine.
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"She's just teaching her manners, Rachel. Don't be so dramatic."
"She’s been doing it for years," I whispered to Detective Morales, horror dawning over me. "And my mother helped her hide it."
