Chapter 3 - The House of Secrets
The police arrived at the hospital twenty minutes later. Two detectives, one male and one female, took my statement and then gently interviewed Emily with the social worker present. I stood in the corner of the room, my heart breaking all over again as my tiny daughter recounted the horrors of her own home.
She explained how Rachel had installed a padlock on the pantry door two months ago. How Rachel would restrict her food if she didn't clean the baseboards perfectly. And then, she explained what happened that morning. Emily had woken up starving. She found the padlock unclicked. She took a single slice of white bread. Rachel caught her, dragged her to the laundry room, turned on my heavy-duty dress shirt iron to the highest cotton setting, and forced Emily's hands flat against the burning metal.
When the detectives finished, they asked for my house keys. They were going to secure the premises and execute a search warrant.
"I'm coming with you," I told the lead detective, a grizzled man named Miller.
Miller looked at me, assessing my state of mind. "Mr. Reynolds, we are going to collect evidence. If your wife is there, things could get volatile. You should stay with your daughter."
"My sister is on her way to sit with Emily," I replied, my voice dead and hollow. "I need to go to my house. I need to get Emily's clothes, her favorite blanket, and her stuffed bear. She is never stepping foot in that house again, but she needs her things. I will stay out of your way."
Miller nodded slowly. "Alright. But you let us go in first."
When we arrived at my suburban home—a four-bedroom colonial with a manicured lawn that I paid thousands of dollars a year to maintain—Rachel’s car was in the driveway. The front door was locked.
Detective Miller knocked heavily. "Police! Open the door!"
No answer. He used my key.
We walked into the pristine foyer. The house smelled of expensive vanilla candles and lemon polish. It looked like a magazine cover. It looked like a lie.
"Rachel Reynolds!" Miller shouted.
We found her in the master bedroom. She was frantically throwing designer clothes, jewelry, and stacks of cash from my safe into a large Louis Vuitton suitcase. She froze when the detectives walked in, dropping a handful of diamond necklaces onto the carpet.
"Rachel Reynolds," the female detective said, stepping forward with handcuffs unclipped. "You are under arrest for aggravated child abuse and domestic battery."
"Wait! Wait, I'm calling my lawyer!" Rachel shrieked, backing away toward the en-suite bathroom. "This is my house! You can't do this! Jack! Tell them!"
I stood in the doorway, my face a mask of stone. I watched as the detective spun Rachel around, forced her hands behind her back, and clicked the cold steel around her wrists.
"Read her her rights," Miller ordered.
As they led a screaming, crying Rachel down the stairs, I walked into the hallway and opened the door to Emily’s room.
I hadn't truly looked at this room in a year. When I turned on the light, the breath was knocked out of my lungs.
It was bare. The bookshelf I had built for her was empty. Her toy chest was gone. The bright pink curtains had been replaced with cheap, drab grey blinds. It looked like a prison cell.
I walked downstairs to the kitchen. Miller was standing by the laundry room, pulling on a pair of blue latex gloves. I walked past him and looked at the pantry. There, drilled directly into the expensive oak doors, was a heavy metal hasp and a Master Lock.
I moved to the laundry room. Sitting on the ironing board, still plugged into the wall, was my Rowenta iron.
Detective Miller lifted his camera and took a flash photograph of the iron. He pointed to the metal plate. "Skin tissue," he murmured quietly. "And melted synthetic fibers. Probably from her pajamas. We have her."
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I backed out of the room, ran to the downstairs half-bathroom, and violently threw up into the sink. I washed my face with freezing water, staring at the monster in the mirror. The monster who had paid the mortgage, bought the iron, and ignored the silence of his own child.
I pulled out my phone and dialed the most ruthless corporate attorney I knew. "Marcus," I said when he answered. "I need the best criminal prosecutor and divorce shark in the state of. Money is not an object. I want to destroy someone."
