Bella said the woman at daycare had hair like Katherine’s pictures, smelled of flowers, and wore a medical mask. After bedtime, I carried the bear into Katherine’s untouched closet. Her favorite blue pregnancy sweater was missing.
A note had appeared on an old leather suitcase: “For rainy days. She’ll need a piece of me.” I knew the handwriting. Auburn strands lay nearby, although neither the note nor the hair had been there when I organized the closet the previous week.
I opened our security app and searched Tuesday’s recordings. At 2:47 p.m., a woman unlocked my front door with a key. She moved through the rooms without hesitation, entered the closet, and left minutes later.
It was Katherine.
The following morning, daycare director Mrs. Chen apologized and confirmed that several visitors had been in the building. She could not identify Bella’s mysterious giver. I told her nobody claiming to know our family could approach my daughter again without my approval.
Then I drove to Katherine’s parents’ mansion in Ashford Heights. I watched from across the street for two days. On the third, a silver SUV arrived. Katherine stepped out and entered her parents’ house with her own key.
When she returned an hour later, I was waiting beside her vehicle.
“Hello, Katherine.”
Her keys struck the pavement. Tears filled her eyes, but I kept my voice controlled. I told her she had allowed me to mourn at an empty grave and had left Bella wondering whether she had somehow caused her mother’s death.
“I can explain,” Katherine whispered.
“Then get in. You owe us the truth.”
