Chapter 2 - The photographs they never got I called the police.
Cedric asked me not to.
Not loudly.
That almost made it worse.
“Linnea, think.”
“I am.”
“This is a family matter.”
“The hose stopped being a family matter.”
Barton laughed bitterly.
“You kicked me.”
“Yes.”
“And you think you’re calling police on me?”
“Yes.”
I did.
When officers arrived, I told them immediately:
“I kicked him.”
No heroic editing.
Officer Maya Ortiz separated everyone.
Barton on the front porch.
Cedric by the driveway.
Me and Ottilie inside.
A second officer photographed:
Wet grass.
Hose.
Ottilie’s soaked dress.
The toys.
The folder where I said I found it.
Barton’s muddy clothing.
No one arrested everybody on sight.
They asked questions.
Barton said:
Ottilie had been screaming and throwing toys.
He turned on the hose “briefly” to startle her and stop the tantrum.
He denied aiming at her face.
He said he did not strike her.
True, as far as I had seen.
I said:
He intentionally sprayed her body while she cried.
I kicked him because I believed he was continuing to hurt her.
Officer Ortiz wrote everything.
Then:
“Did Mr. Prescott threaten your daughter?”
“I didn’t hear anything before I came outside.”
Good.
No invention.
Ottilie was not interrogated by me.
A child-trained officer later spoke with her separately while I remained nearby.
Cedric said:
He had asked Barton to help “declutter” Ottilie’s room.
He denied authorizing disposal.
He denied authorizing physical punishment beyond ordinary verbal consequences.
Then Officer Ortiz asked:
“Did you tell your father he could punish Ottilie?”
Cedric stared toward our daughter.
“Yes.”
My chest tightened.
“What did that mean?”
“I told him he didn’t have to call us every time she refused instructions.”
“Did you authorize corporal punishment?”
“No.”
“Hose?”
“No.”
“Removal of toys?”
“I said privileges could be removed.”
Officer Ortiz pointed toward the side yard.
“All of them?”
Cedric looked away.
“I didn’t know he moved that much.”
Barton said from the porch:
“You knew exactly what we discussed.”
Cedric snapped:
“Dad, shut up.”
The officers looked at each other.
I did too.
Whatever arrangement existed was already fracturing.
Then they examined the legal folder.
It did not appear to be a filed court order.
Draft.
Attorney letterhead:
Kendall & Moss Family Law.
I had never heard of them.
I asked Cedric:
“You have a family lawyer?”
No answer.
The officer asked instead:
“Mr. Prescott?”
Cedric finally said:
“I had a consultation.”
My throat tightened.
“For what?”
“That is privileged.”
Technically, he was right to be cautious.
Emotionally, I wanted to tear the driveway apart.
The police took no legal file merely because I wanted them to.
They photographed what was openly visible and later investigators obtained what they needed through consent, subpoena, or warrant.
The child-welfare report moved separately.
A caseworker named Laura Chen arrived that evening.
She interviewed Ottilie.
Then me.
Then Cedric separately.
Barton was told to leave the property.
The temporary safety plan:
Barton no contact with Ottilie pending review.
Cedric could remain only if I agreed and if he did not interfere with the investigation.
I did not agree.
He packed a bag.
He looked stunned.
“This is my house.”
“Our daughter is scared of you.”
“I never sprayed her.”
“You told him he could punish her.”
“I didn’t tell him this.”
“You knew her belongings were being moved.”
He looked away.
That was enough.
Cedric stayed at a hotel.
Barton went home.
I put Ottilie in a warm bath.
She held the stuffed kitten.
Dirty.
Wet.
One ear stained with mud.
“I can wash her.”
“No.”
“Okay.”
She pressed it against her chest.
Then:
“Grandpa said kitty was baby stuff.”
I sat beside the tub.
“What else did Grandpa say?”
Her eyes dropped.
“That Daddy said I have to be better.”
My throat tightened.
“Better how?”
“Not cry.”
“What happens if you cry?”
She whispered:
“Things go away.”
I closed my eyes.
Then:
“Did Daddy say that?”
She thought.
“I don’t know.”
Good.
A child separating source.
I kissed her hair.
“You never lose your home because you cry.”
She looked at me.
“Home?”
That word caught me.
“What?”
“Grandpa said I’m sleeping at his house when you go away.”
I went still.
“Where am I going?”
She shrugged.
“The doctor place.”
I had no doctor place.
No treatment.
No trip.
Nothing.
May you like
Someone had told my daughter her mother was going away.
And by bedtime, the legal folder felt much less like a draft.
