Until Proven Innocent

CHAPTER THREE

AFTER
Cordelia Waters
Thursday May 18, 2016

It's been thirty minutes since we discovered the empty crib. The police arrived almost immediately, asking us dozens of questions, moving through our home with a fine-tooth comb. There are three officers here: two men and a woman. My husband had them convinced from the get-go that I may have had something to do with our daughter's disappearance. 'My wife suffered from severe postpartum psychosis.' 'She's not one hundred percent stable.' 'She doesn't remember what happened.' I may have had mixed feelings about Emerald in the past, but all those thoughts were diminished months ago. I'm better now. I would never harm another living being, especially my own child.

That's when they started looking at me peculiarly, walking on egg shells around me, ensuring they spoke in gentle tones. As if I'm some lunatic who might break at any moment. They can believe Weston's desperate accusations, but I know the truth. Someone came in here and took my child. But I understand. They have to do their job. Even if that includes interrogating me.

He tells me it's just standard questioning, but I know that the seed of suspicion has been planted in all of their minds. Rowan Ashby, that's the officer's name. He has dark brown eyes and looks at me like I'm a small bird. He begins by asking me to recite everything that I did today, right up until the moment that Weston came home and found the empty crib. I scan through my memory, racking my brain for all of the details. It proves more difficult than I'd like, but I don't mention this. Instead, I take deep breaths, fold my hands in my lap, and attempt to speak as clearly as I can without letting my voice falter, revealing the illusion of my confidence.

He writes everything down, nodding his head in sync with my words. Once I'm done rehearsing the events of my Thursday, he goes on to ask if I've been feeling stressed lately. I suppress the voice inside that wants to laugh and say: Stress is an understatement. Do you have children, Officer Ashby? He looks too young to have kids. He can't be more than twenty-three. Twenty-four at most. He asks me what I do for a living. How long Weston and I have been married. When did we move into this house. Do I get enough sleep at night. Do I have any ill thoughts towards my daughter. I try not to laugh.

Once he's finished his questions, he leaves me to sit on the couch alone, but not without his weary eyes trailing behind. I watch the scene unfold in front of me. A crime scene unit has been dispatched and is now analyzing the house. A man in a navy blue jacket asks me if we have a place to stay tonight. He explains that this is now a crime scene, and they need to gather evidence. I flinch at the word crime scene. My eyes wander to the front door, where another navy jacket is knelt down, fixated on the door handle, determining if it was tampered with.

Minutes that feel like hours pass, and when I blink, nothing has changed. I check the time: six-fifteen. I spot Officer Ashby standing in the corner speaking with my husband. I'm sure Weston isn't getting the third degree that Rowan Ashby kindly delivered to me.

____

I'm distracted, staring at the wall, a vacant look on my face, when a man in a dark grey suit approaches and asks if he can have a seat. I nod. The only thought going through my mind is the colour of the wall. It's a dark shade of green. Hideous, really. I don't know why Weston chose that colour. I don't know why I agreed to even let him choose that colour. But that's what marriage is about, compromise and acceptance.

He introduces himself as Detective Gerard Sullivan. "Would you like me to get you anything to drink? Tea? Coffee?" he speaks softly and his eyes are sympathetic. His disposition is a one-eighty from Officer Ashby.
"Coffee." I say. "Coffee would be nice. Two creams, please."