The hotel was modest.
It had a small reception area, a narrow hallway, and a room with two beds.
Nothing special.
But the door locked.
That mattered.
I carried our suitcase inside and placed it beside the bed.
Daisy sat on the mattress with her stuffed bunny.
She looked exhausted.
I took off my coat and checked her head again.
The red marks were still there.
I didn't want to touch them too much.
She watched my hand.
“Does my hair come back?”
I sat beside her.
“Yes, sweetheart.”
“When?”
“It takes time.”
She looked down at Bunny.
“Will Grandma cut it again?”
I felt my throat tighten.
“No.”
I said it firmly.
Not because I knew what the future would bring.
Because I needed my daughter to believe that I could protect her.
I ordered something simple for dinner.
Daisy barely ate.
She picked at the food and asked whether we could go home.
I told her we would find a safe place.
She didn't ask again.
After dinner, I helped her change into clean pajamas.
I brushed her teeth.
Then I tucked her into bed.
She held my hand.
“Don't go away.”
“I won't.”
I sat beside her until her breathing became slow and even.
The room was quiet.
The heating system made a soft clicking sound.
Outside, cars moved along the road.
I looked at the suitcase.
Then at the stuffed bunny beside Daisy.
My lip was swollen.
My cheek hurt.
But the worst feeling wasn't physical.
It was the realization that the people I had trusted had been willing to hurt my child.
And my husband had defended them without asking a single question.
I took out my phone.
There were no new messages.
I opened the photograph gallery.
I found a picture of Daisy from the previous month.
She was sitting on the living room carpet, holding a toy.
Her hair was tied into two small ponytails.
I stared at the picture for a long time.
Then I put the phone down.
I needed to think.
That was when I remembered the camera.
At first, the memory came back in pieces.
A small black device.
A row of books.
An application on my phone.
Almost two years earlier, Mitchell and I had discussed hiring a nanny.
We both worked long hours, and we wanted to make sure Daisy was being cared for properly.
I had installed a small camera in the living room.
It was positioned behind a row of books.
The device was meant to let us check on the room when we weren't home.
I remembered testing it.
I remembered checking the picture on my phone.
Then, after our childcare arrangements changed, I had almost forgotten it existed.
Almost two years.
I sat up straighter.
Could it still be working?
I opened the camera application.
The login screen appeared.
I entered my details.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the familiar interface loaded.
I could see the device name.
Living Room.
My fingers went cold.
I tapped the recording section.
A calendar appeared.
I selected the day I had returned from Kansas City.
There were several recorded clips.
I didn't know whether the camera had captured everything.
I didn't even know whether the recordings were complete.
But I had to look.
I lowered the volume on my phone.
Daisy was sleeping.
I opened the first available recording.
The picture was slightly grainy.
The camera showed the living room from its position behind the books.
The couch was visible.
So was the dining area.
I recognized the furniture immediately.
I recognized the curtains.
I recognized the corner where Daisy usually played.
I moved the recording forward.
My stomach tightened.
I could see Beatrice.
She was moving around the living room.
Brenda appeared a little later.
Raymond crossed the room.
I stopped the recording.
I wasn't ready.
I looked at Daisy.
She was still asleep.
Her little hand rested on Bunny's ear.
I returned to the application.
There was something strange about seeing the apartment from that angle.
I had lived there.
I knew the sounds.
I knew where everyone usually sat.
I knew which cabinet made a noise when it closed.
But through the camera, the room looked different.
It looked like a place I had been watching without realizing how much I had missed.
I opened another clip.
This time, I moved the recording closer to the afternoon.
I watched the living room.
I watched the people entering and leaving.
I tried to remember what I had been doing at those exact times.
I had been at the conference.
I had been sitting through meetings.
I had been checking financial reports.
I had been calling home to ask whether Daisy had eaten.
I had believed everything was normal.
The recording continued.
I paused it again.
My fingers were trembling.
I thought about the missing bracelet.
Beatrice had been very certain about her accusation.
She had said Daisy was the only person who entered her bedroom.
But that wasn't proof.
And there was something else.
Something about the way Brenda had spoken.
She hadn't sounded surprised.
She had sounded entertained.
I opened the next recording.
The time stamp appeared at the bottom.
I moved the progress bar forward slowly.
I wanted to see what happened in the apartment while I was away.
I wanted to know whether Daisy had been frightened before I returned.
I wanted to know why nobody had called me.
I wanted to know why my daughter had been left outside in the cold.
I pressed play.
The image began moving.
And I kept watching.
Click here to continue reading: PART 4: The Small Camera Behind the Living Room Books Had Been Forgotten, but Its Recordings Were About to Change Everything I Thought I Knew
I Thought Coming Home Would Make Everything Right, Until I Saw My Little Girl Standing Alone in the January Cold
Part 3 of 4
