At first, I thought she meant the tag. A small white gift tag was tucked under the bow. But then I saw the bear’s left eye. It did not match the right one. The right eye was glossy and flat. The left eye had a tiny dark circle at the center, too deep, too exact, like a pinhole.
My mouth went dry.
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I carefully took the bear from Lily.
“Sweetheart,” I said, keeping my voice steady, “go help Daddy put candles on the cake.”
She frowned. “Is it broken?”
“Maybe,” I said. “I’ll check it.”
Daniel looked over from the kitchen, saw my face, and immediately walked toward me. I turned the bear over in my hands. There was a seam along the back, but near the battery compartment, I felt something solid. Not a music box. Not stuffing. A square.
Daniel whispered, “Claire?”
I did not answer.
I carried the bear into our bedroom, closed the door, and set it on the dresser. Then I switched off the lights. The left eye faintly glimmered.
Daniel’s face changed.
“No,” he breathed.
I searched the bear carefully and found a hidden switch under the stitched fabric near its leg. My fingers trembled, but I did not scream. I did not call Margaret. I did not accuse anyone.
I took pictures. I put the bear in a drawer. Then I called my brother, Aaron, a detective in another county. Family
He listened without cutting me off.
Then he said, “Claire, do not open it yourself. Do not destroy it. Put it in a paper bag, not plastic. I’m calling someone.”
Three days later, police were at my in-laws’ door.
