I looked at the investigator and tried to understand what she had just said.
“What did my sister tell you?”
The investigator pulled out a chair but did not sit down.
“First, I need you to answer a few questions about your time alone with Paige.”
“I've already told you everything.”
“I understand. I need to make sure we have the details in the right order.”
I sat back down.
My hands were cold.
I had spent the afternoon explaining how I discovered the injury, but now I felt as though the conversation had changed direction.
The investigator asked when Kate had arrived at my house.
I gave her the approximate time.
She asked when Kate and her husband had left.
I answered that, too.
Then she asked how long Paige had been crying before I checked her diaper.
“Maybe twenty minutes after they left, she started fussing. I tried feeding her and holding her. It got worse.”
“And you hadn't noticed the injury before that?”
“No.”
“Had you changed her clothes at any point?”
“No. I opened the sleeper because I wanted to check her diaper and see whether something was irritating her.”
She wrote something down.
I watched the pen move across the page.
It seemed strange that a morning I had barely thought about while it was happening now needed to be reconstructed minute by minute.
The investigator asked whether I had taken Paige into another room before the changing table.
“No.”
“Did you have any visitors?”
“No.”
“Was anyone else inside the house?”
“Not that morning.”
She nodded.
Then she asked me to describe the makeup again.
I explained that it was beige, thick, and spread across part of Paige's left thigh.
I told her about the faint floral smell.
I told her that I had removed only a small amount with a baby wipe.
“And you stopped when you saw the bruise?”
“Immediately.”
“Why?”
“Because she screamed, and I could see how badly her skin was discolored. I didn't want to touch it again.”
The investigator paused.
“Did you take the wipe with you?”
“No. I left it on the changing table.”
I wished I had thought to bring it.
At the time, I had been thinking about Paige's pain, not about preserving evidence.
The investigator explained that the medical team had documented the injury and that she would need to establish what had happened before Paige arrived at the hospital.
I understood that.
I just did not understand why the questions made me feel more frightened each time they were repeated.
Then she returned to the call from Kate.
“Your sister contacted us after the hospital became involved.”
“What did she say?”
“She gave us information about the circumstances surrounding Paige's injury.”
I leaned forward.
“What information?”
The investigator looked at me carefully.
“We're still verifying what we've been told.”
I felt a sudden urge to stand up and walk out.
Not because I wanted to avoid the questions.
Because I wanted to call Kate myself and demand that she explain what she had told them.
I wanted to hear her voice.
I wanted to know whether she was frightened, angry, or simply unable to face what was happening.
Most of all, I wanted to understand why she had read my messages and ignored them.
“Did she say I hurt Paige?”
The investigator did not answer immediately.
“Ally, I don't want to put words in anyone's mouth. We need to compare the accounts with the medical findings.”
That was not a denial.
I looked down at the table.
For the first time, I understood how easily a person could become trapped between what they knew and what someone else might claim.
I knew I had not injured Paige.
I knew I had not covered her thigh with makeup.
But I could not control what Kate said about the morning.
I could only tell the truth.
The investigator asked whether Kate and I had argued recently.
“No.”
“Any disagreement about Paige's care?”
“No.”
“Any reason she might believe you would be angry with her?”
I thought about the question.
“Not that I can think of.”
I hesitated.
“Why? What did she say?”
The investigator closed the folder.
“We'll speak again when we have more information.”
I sat there, waiting for her to explain.
She did not.
When she left the room, I remained in my chair for several minutes.
Then I took out my phone.
I called Kate again.
Voicemail.
I sent one more message.
I need to know what you told them. Please call me.
I stared at the screen.
No reply came.
I had always believed that family members eventually answered one another, even if it took an argument or two.
That afternoon, I began to understand that silence could become its own kind of answer.
Not a complete answer.
Not proof of anything.
But something I could no longer ignore.
I put the phone away and returned to the waiting area.
Paige was still being monitored, and I wanted to be nearby when the doctors needed me.
Whatever happened between Kate and me, my niece could not afford to become an afterthought.
I sat down beside the diaper bag.
The little green sleeper was still in my mind.
I could picture the zipper, the fabric around Paige's legs, and the way Kate had checked it before leaving.
I had no proof that the gesture meant anything.
I refused to turn it into a fact simply because I was afraid.
But I could not stop remembering it.
And I could not stop wondering why Kate had told me to make the call if Paige became too upset.
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: I Wanted to Believe My Sister Had an Explanation, but the Hospital Questions Made It Harder to Ignore What I Had Found
My Sister Left Her Six-Month-Old Daughter With Me That Saturday, and One Strange Thing She Said Kept Coming Back to Me
Part 5 of 8
