I didn't sleep that afternoon.
Not even for a few minutes.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Paige on the changing table.
The green sleeper.
The swollen thigh.
The beige coating.
The little patch where the wipe had exposed the bruise.
Those images stayed together in my mind.
I couldn't separate them anymore.
A nurse came in to check Paige's comfort.
She spoke softly while she worked.
I watched her support the injured leg.
She was careful.
Every movement seemed deliberate.
I appreciated that.
The nurse noticed me watching.
"She's being monitored closely," she told me.
I nodded.
"I know."
But knowing didn't stop me from worrying.
I had become frightened of every little sound Paige made.
If she whimpered, I wondered whether she was hurting.
If she became quiet, I wondered whether she was simply exhausted.
I couldn't find a comfortable middle ground.
Kate had stepped out briefly.
Ryan had gone with her.
I was alone with Paige and the nurse.
I looked toward the doorway.
Part of me was relieved to have a little quiet.
I loved my sister.
I had known Ryan for years.
But being in the room with them had become difficult.
Every unanswered question seemed to stand between us.
The nurse finished checking Paige.
Then she left.
I moved my chair closer.
I rested one hand beside Paige's blanket.
I didn't want to disturb her.
She had finally settled enough to rest.
I watched her face.
Her cheeks were still flushed.
Her dark hair lay softly against her head.
I remembered how excited Kate had been when Paige was born.
I remembered holding my niece when she was tiny and sleepy.
Back then, I couldn't imagine anything more frightening than dropping her.
I used to pay attention to every movement.
One hand supporting her back.
One beneath her head.
Always careful.
Now I was looking at a baby with a fracture no one had explained.
I didn't know how those two pictures of Paige's life could fit together.
A few minutes later, the resident returned.
She asked whether Kate and Ryan were nearby.
I told her they'd stepped out.
She said she would speak with them when they returned.
Then she asked whether Paige had been resting comfortably.
I told her she'd been quieter.
The doctor checked her condition.
She looked at the chart.
Then she turned to me.
"Ally, I understand you've already spoken with the investigator."
"Yes."
"Thank you for giving a detailed account."
I nodded.
I didn't know what else to say.
She explained that the medical team was continuing to review the additional imaging.
There were specialists involved.
They were trying to understand what the findings meant and what care Paige needed.
I asked whether the second area of concern was definitely another fracture.
The doctor answered carefully.
She said the images were concerning, but interpretation and timing required expert review.
I was grateful she didn't pretend to know more than she did.
I had already learned how dangerous assumptions could become.
I wanted the truth.
Even if it took time.
The resident explained that unexplained injuries in infants could require evaluation for several possible causes.
Accidental injuries.
Medical conditions.
And injuries caused by someone else.
I felt my stomach tighten when she said the last part.
I had been thinking it.
Of course I had.
But hearing a doctor include it among the possibilities made it harder to push aside.
I looked at Paige.
"Do you think somebody did this to her?"
The doctor didn't answer with an accusation.
She said the team was concerned about the pattern of findings and the absence of an adequate explanation.
Their priority was to determine Paige's medical needs and protect her from further harm.
I looked down.
I understood.
They couldn't tell me who had caused the injury.
They couldn't even tell me exactly when every injury had occurred.
But they could tell that something wasn't right.
That was enough to require action.
The doctor asked whether I remembered anything else about Kate's arrival.
I shook my head at first.
Then I thought about the conversation with the investigator.
"She looked exhausted."
"Anything unusual about how she handled Paige?"
I paused.
I tried to picture Kate standing in my doorway.
The diaper bag over her shoulder.
Paige in her arms.
Her tired smile.
I hadn't noticed anything that frightened me then.
"I don't remember her moving Paige roughly," I said.
"Did she seem hesitant to let you hold her?"
"No."
"Did she tell you to avoid touching any part of Paige's body?"
"No."
I looked toward the baby's left leg.
"That's what bothers me."
The doctor waited.
"If Kate knew something was wrong with her leg, why wouldn't she tell me?"
I felt tears in my eyes.
"Why would she let me pick her up without warning me?"
The doctor listened.
She didn't tell me what my sister knew.
She couldn't.
Neither could I.
I wiped my face.
"I'm sorry."
"You don't need to apologize for being worried."
I nodded.
The resident explained that other people would continue gathering information about the timeline.
She said the medical team would document what they found.
I was beginning to understand how much depended on that distinction.
Medical findings were one thing.
What people said happened was another.
The investigation needed both.
When Kate and Ryan returned, the doctor spoke with them.
She asked Kate to describe Paige's behavior the night before.
I remained in the room because Kate didn't ask me to leave, but I stayed quiet.
I didn't want my questions to interfere.
Kate sat down.
She rubbed her eyes.
"She was crying a lot."
The doctor asked when it started.
Kate hesitated.
"Late evening, I think."
I remembered what she'd said earlier.
During the night.
Now she was saying late evening.
That wasn't necessarily a contradiction.
But I noticed the difference.
The doctor asked whether Paige had been fed.
Kate said yes.
She described trying to settle her.
The doctor asked whether she had noticed pain when moving Paige.
Kate looked down.
"She got upset when we picked her up."
I felt my chest tighten.
That was the first time I had heard her say it that way.
I had described Paige screaming when I adjusted my hold.
Now Kate was saying something similar had happened the night before.
The doctor asked,
"Did she cry more when you changed her position?"
Kate nodded slowly.
"I think so."
Ryan moved in his chair.
The doctor turned toward him.
"Do you remember that?"
He hesitated.
"She was crying. We were both tired."
I watched the exchange.
I didn't want to assume that exhaustion meant anything more than exhaustion.
Parents of infants were often tired.
But a baby crying in pain was different from a baby who couldn't settle.
That was what I had learned that morning.
And now Kate seemed to be describing signs that sounded painfully familiar.
The doctor asked whether they had considered contacting a medical professional.
Kate shook her head.
"We thought it was teething."
Ryan added,
"She'd been fussy before."
I looked at Paige.
I wanted to know how severe her crying had been.
Whether she'd screamed.
Whether her left leg had been still.
Whether the swelling was already visible.
But the doctor continued methodically.
She asked who had changed Paige overnight.
Kate said they had both helped care for her.
The physician asked whether anyone remembered a particular moment when Paige suddenly began crying.
Kate looked at Ryan.
He looked back.
Then Kate said,
"I don't remember anything like that."
The doctor wrote something down.
She asked whether there had been any fall.
Both said no.
Any accident while bathing?
No.
Any difficulty transferring Paige from one person to another?
Neither described one.
I listened.
The more questions the doctor asked, the clearer one thing became.
They were describing a baby who had cried through the night.
But they were not describing an event that explained a fractured bone.
Kate said Paige had been difficult to settle.
Then she said Paige seemed especially upset during a diaper change that morning.
I remembered her saying that earlier.
I watched the doctor.
"When you changed her," the resident asked, "did you notice whether she moved both legs?"
Kate hesitated.
"I wasn't looking for that."
I looked down at my hands.
Neither had I.
Not at first.
I had only noticed because Paige screamed and I became frightened.
The doctor asked whether Kate had seen swelling.
My sister shook her head.
"Not until today."
"Did you see any bruising?"
"No."
"Did you apply anything to her thigh?"
"No."
Ryan shifted again.
I glanced toward him.
He was looking at the floor.
The doctor asked him the same question.
"Did you put any makeup, cream, or other substance on Paige's leg?"
"No."
His answer was short.
I looked toward the diaper bag.
I couldn't stop thinking about the concealer.
It was the part that seemed hardest to explain accidentally.
A bruise could come from an injury.
A fracture could come from force applied to a bone.
But makeup didn't appear on a baby's thigh by itself.
Someone had put it there.
That seemed undeniable.
Yet both parents said they hadn't.
I looked at my sister.
Her eyes were wet again.
I wanted to ask her whether she was certain.
Whether she had seen anyone else handle Paige.
Whether she remembered putting something on the baby's skin without thinking.
But the doctor had already asked.
I didn't need to repeat the questions.
The resident finished speaking with them.
She explained that the team would continue reviewing Paige's condition and the circumstances surrounding the injuries.
Then she left.
Kate sat quietly.
Ryan stood.
He walked toward the doorway and stopped.
"I need some air."
Kate nodded.
He left.
I watched him go.
I didn't know what was happening inside his head.
I only knew he hadn't offered an explanation.
When we were alone with Paige, Kate looked at me.
"Ally, do you think I hurt her?"
I felt the question strike me.
I hadn't expected her to ask it so directly.
I looked at Paige.
Then back at my sister.
"I don't know what happened."
Kate began crying again.
"I would never want her hurt."
I wanted to believe that.
I wanted to take her hand and tell her everything would be fine.
But I couldn't honestly promise either thing.
So I said,
"Then help them understand what happened."
Kate wiped her cheeks.
"I don't remember anything happening."
I nodded slowly.
"Then tell them everything you do remember."
She lowered her head.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
I thought about the investigator.
The timeline.
The diaper bag.
The makeup.
The morning change.
The restless night.
I couldn't force those details into an answer.
I couldn't decide what they meant simply because I was frightened.
But I also couldn't ignore them.
I looked down at Paige.
She was resting between us.
So small that her hand barely covered the end of my finger.
I thought about the way she'd screamed when I moved her.
Then I thought about Kate saying Paige had cried when they picked her up the night before.
Those two details seemed connected.
I couldn't prove it.
But I couldn't forget it either.
The afternoon light had begun to change outside the hospital window.
I was tired.
Kate was tired.
Everyone seemed tired.
Paige had been tired long before any of us reached the hospital.
I looked at her little face.
I wanted her to wake up comfortable.
I wanted her to take a bottle without pain.
I wanted to hear her make the happy little sounds I remembered.
I didn't know when that would happen.
I only knew that the doctors were still trying to understand injuries no one had explained.
And that my sister's account of the previous night was no longer as simple as saying Paige had been teething.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: The Investigator Returned to the Diaper Bag, and an Ordinary Item Raised Another Question About the Makeup
My Sister Left Her Six-Month-Old Daughter With Me That Saturday, and One Strange Thing She Said Kept Coming Back to Me
Part 10 of 20
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