Rebecca felt the floor tilt. Patricia had planned this. She had called the police to witness Rebecca’s breakdown. She had taken the inhaler to provoke it. She was building a case.
The paper trembled in Rebecca’s hand. She couldn’t read the words. They blurred. But she knew what they meant. She would lose Sophie. Not just today. Forever.
Sophie gasped. A thin, whistling sound. Her eyes rolled back.
“No,” Rebecca breathed. “No, no, no.”
She looked at Patricia. “If I sign this, you’ll tell me?”
Patricia nodded. “I give you my word.”
Rebecca laughed. It was a broken sound. “Your word.”
Patricia’s expression didn’t change. “It’s the only offer you have.”
Rebecca looked at Sophie. Her daughter’s chest was heaving. Her lips were blue. Her tiny fingers were cold.
She took the pen.
Officer Hale said, “Ma’am, don’t—”
But Rebecca signed. Her hand shook so badly the letters were barely legible. She signed her name and dropped the pen.
“Now tell me,” she said. “Where is it?”
Patricia folded the paper and tucked it back into her pocket. She looked at Rebecca with something like satisfaction.
“The freezer,” she said. “Behind the frozen peas.”
Rebecca was on her feet before Patricia finished the sentence. She ran. The kitchen was a blur. She yanked open the freezer. Cold air hit her face. She dug through frozen vegetables, ice cream, a bag of peas. Her fingers closed around a small plastic L-shaped tube.
The inhaler.
She ran back. Sophie was limp in her arms. Rebecca shook the inhaler, pressed it into Sophie’s mouth, and squeezed.
One puff. Two.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then Sophie coughed. A deep, ragged cough. Her chest heaved. She took a breath. Then another. Color crept back into her lips.
Rebecca held her. She rocked her. She cried into her hair.
The paramedics arrived three minutes later. They took Sophie’s vitals, put her on oxygen, and rushed her to the ambulance. Rebecca rode with her. She didn’t look at Patricia. She didn’t look at the officers. She just held her daughter’s hand.
At the hospital, Sophie was stabilized. The doctors said she would be fine. Rebecca sat beside her bed and watched her sleep. The machines beeped. The fluorescent lights hummed. Rebecca didn’t sleep.
At dawn, Officer Hale walked into the room.
He was holding a small device. A body camera.
“Mrs. Rebecca,” he said. “I need to show you something.”
He played the footage. It was from the living room. Patricia’s voice, cold and clear: “She can breathe once she learns some respect.” The officers’ hesitation. Rebecca’s screams. The signing.
“I’m sorry I didn’t act sooner,” Hale said. “I was waiting for her to incriminate herself. I’ve been investigating her for three months. Your pediatrician flagged Sophie’s case. Too many asthma attacks. Too many ER visits. All when Patricia was babysitting.”
Rebecca stared at him. “You knew?”
