My new wife’s seven-year-old daughter burst into tears every time we were left alone together. Whenever I gently asked her what was wrong, she would only shake her head silently. My wife would just laugh it off and say, “She simply doesn’t like you.”

At the bottom of a heavy wooden toy chest, buried beneath dolls and blocks, lay a small stuffed rabbit. One ear dangled by a thread. Around the torn fabric was a stiff, dark brown stain.

Dried blood.

I photographed everything.

The medication.

The rabbit.

The bruises.

I wanted to call child protective services that second. But Clara had money, charm, and the kind of public image people trusted before asking questions. If I acted too soon and she explained everything away, Harper would be the one punished when the door closed again.

That evening, Harper barely touched her dinner.

“Not hungry?” Clara asked sweetly.

“My stomach hurts,” Harper whispered.

“Maybe you’re getting sick.”

Clara turned to me.

“Ethan, bring her the pink pills from the kitchen.”

I walked into the kitchen, but instead of going straight to the cabinet, I opened the recording app on my phone.

“The sleep medication?” I called.

“Yes,” Clara answered. “Two tablets should help her sleep through whatever this is.”

My pulse hammered as I returned with the pills.