I imagined Ruby losing strength.
I imagined that little velvet shoe soaking through while she carried the slush-covered rabbit under one arm.
I had to stop myself there.
There were some pictures I could not allow my mind to finish.
The officer turned the evidence sleeve over in his hand.
That was when I noticed writing on the back of the white tag.
Not the printed business name.
Handwriting.
My father’s handwriting.
The same backward-slanting block letters I had recognized from the front.
The officer studied it for a moment before lifting the sleeve so I could see it more clearly.
Whatever my father had written there had been attached to the same key he gave Maisie before telling her to leave through the side gate.
The same key recovered after my daughters were found nearly two miles away.
The same key now sitting between a police officer, a nurse, and two hospital beds on Christmas Day.
I tightened my fingers around Ruby’s small wrapped hand.
Upstairs, David was still in intensive care.
Beside me, Maisie was watching the evidence sleeve with tired, frightened eyes.
And suddenly the question was no longer whether my parents had abandoned my daughters in the snow.
Maisie had already told us that.
The question was why my father had prepared his version of the story at 2:12 p.m.—and what he had written on the back of that key before sending my children through the side gate.
The officer turned the tag fully toward me.
Then he told me to read the words my father had written there.
