Chapter 3 - THREE DROPS
Lincoln met me at a business hotel.
“Start from the beginning.”
I told him everything.
No theories.
Only what Matilda said.
When I finished, he asked:
“Interior cameras?”
“Smart-home system.”
“Installed before Pamela?”
“Yes.”
“Cloud backup?”
“I think so.”
He opened his laptop.
“People remember cameras they can see.”
He typed.
“They forget archives.”
I gave him access.
“You haven’t changed this password in four years.”
“I have larger concerns.”
“Today they’re the same concern.”
While he worked, I called our pediatrician and secured an emergency appointment.
Then Lincoln asked:
“Any prescription stimulants in your home?”
I stopped.
“Pamela has ADHD.”
“What does she take?”
“Adderall.”
His expression changed.
“No.”
“Greg.”
“No.”
“Amphetamine exposure could cause shaking, agitation, racing heart, insomnia.”
“My six-year-old—”
“I’m identifying a possibility. Not proving one.”
He turned the laptop.
Kitchen footage.
Three weeks earlier.
The morning I flew to Denver.
Pamela entered wearing a robe.
Matilda’s orange juice sat on the island.
Pamela removed a small clear bottle from above the refrigerator.
She used a dropper.
One.
Two.
Three.
Into the juice.
My hands began shaking.
“Again.”
Lincoln replayed it.
Three drops.
Then Pamela stirred the glass.
“Matilda! Breakfast!”
Another video.
Living room.
Matilda paced rapidly.
Hands moving.
Crying.
Pamela stood several feet away filming.
“Matilda, look at me.”
“No!”
“Show Daddy what you do.”
“Stop!”
“Tell Daddy how angry you are.”
“STOP!”
Matilda threw a cushion.
Then collapsed crying.
Pamela kept recording.
I stood so hard my chair fell backward.
“I’m going home.”
“No.”
“My daughter is with her.”
“I know.”
“I take Matilda. Pamela leaves.”
“First part good. Second part requires thought.”
“She’s hurting my child.”
“And if you confront her before evidence is preserved?”
I said nothing.
“She destroys it.”
Lincoln continued:
“And if she has spent months building a behavioral record, she may already be preparing a narrative about you.”
“What narrative?”
“That you refuse treatment for a disturbed child.”
I sat.
Custody.
Medical records.
School reports.
The videos suddenly had a second purpose.
Not merely property.
Credibility.
Lincoln leaned closer.
“Your daughter needs you angry later.”
He pointed at the laptop.
“Right now, she needs you precise.”
I hated him for being right.
“So what do we do?”
May you like
He closed the computer.
“We go home.”
