The Home Visit
Chapter 08 - The Home Visit
Dana Pierce wore practical black shoes and carried no visible opinion.
Emily trusted that more than Barbara's concern.
“Come in,” she said.
Poppy rested on her hip in a clean sleeper. Not a special outfit. Emily had resisted that impulse.
The townhouse smelled of coffee and the lemon cleaner Rosalind used on the counters at three in the morning.
Dana stepped inside and looked first at the floor, then the stairs, then the baby gate.
“Who lives here?”
“Me and my daughter.”
“Anyone stay overnight regularly?”
“No.”
“Family support?”
“My mother is in Rockford. My friend Rosalind lives twenty minutes away.”
“Paternal family?”
Emily turned her ring once.
“Barbara Hale visits.”
“How often?”
“Until last week, once or twice a week.”
Dana wrote that down.
They moved room by room.
Kitchen first. Food in the refrigerator. Formula stored properly. Cleaning products latched beneath the sink.
Dana checked the expiration date on infant acetaminophen.
“Who reported me?” Emily asked.
“I can't disclose that.”
“Can you tell me whether the reporter claimed firsthand knowledge?”
Dana looked up.
“Why?”
“Because the report includes details from inside my home.”
“You've seen the report?”
“My attorney summarized it.”
Dana capped her pen.
“Let's finish the visit.”
Upstairs, she inspected the nursery. Bare crib. Fitted sheet. Monitor mounted beyond Poppy's reach.
A stack of clean laundry sat unfolded on the rocker.
Emily almost apologized.
She didn't.
Dana touched the smoke detector test button. It shrieked once.
Poppy startled and began crying.
Emily lifted her from the crib, pressed the baby's ear against her chest, and swayed.
“It's okay,” she murmured. “Just noise.”
Dana watched.
Not judgment. Assessment.
Emily knew the look because she used it every day.
“How often does she wake at night?” Dana asked.
“Once, sometimes twice.”
“The report says you use headphones while she sleeps.”
Emily stopped swaying.
“I use one earbud when charting after she goes down. The monitor is beside me.”
“Who knows that?”
“Rosalind. My mother. Barbara saw it once.”
Dana wrote again.
“The report says you leave her in the crib awake for prolonged periods.”
“She plays for ten minutes after naps.”
“Any longer?”
“No.”
“Have you ever slept through her crying?”
Emily met her eyes.
“Not that I know of.”
Dana's pen paused.
“That answer is more honest than most.”
They continued.
By ten-thirty, Dana had checked the bathroom water temperature, cabinet locks, daycare records, pediatric appointments, and Emily's work calendar.
Poppy sat on the living-room rug chewing a fabric book.
Dana closed her notebook.
“I don't see an immediate safety concern.”
Emily's knees softened, but she kept standing.
“Will you put that in writing?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“After supervisor review.”
“How long?”
“Several days.”
Emily turned her ring once.
“The custody hearing is before that.”
“I'll note the court date.”
Dana moved toward the door, then stopped.
“Off the record, the report was unusually specific.”
“What does that mean?”
“Most reports say a house is dirty or a parent drinks. This one listed the brand of your baby monitor and the location of your spare key.”
Emily looked toward the ceramic frog on the back patio.
The spare key was beneath it.
Only people who had visited knew.
“Did the reporter enter my home?”
“I can't answer that.”
“You just did.”
Dana's face remained neutral.
“Change the hiding place.”
Then she left.
Emily locked the door and stood with her hand on the deadbolt.
The ceramic frog sat beyond the glass, green paint chipped around one eye.
She moved the key immediately.
---
At noon, Emily drove Poppy to daycare before her hospital shift.
The car felt wrong.
Not mechanically. Watched.
Every dark sedan in the mirror held her attention. A delivery van remained behind her for four blocks, then turned toward the expressway.
She parked at St. Andrew's and called Rosalind.
“The report knew where my spare key was.”
“Change the locks.”
“I did six months ago.”
“Who has keys now?”
“Me. My mother. Rosalind.”
“And Barbara?”
“No.”
A pause.
“Daniel's old key?”
Emily looked toward the glove compartment.
“I don't know where it went after the funeral.”
“Change them again.”
“I will.”
She ended the call and stepped out.
A small black shape beneath the rear bumper caught her eye.
Emily crouched.
At first it looked like road grime stuck to the metal. Then she saw the clean rectangular edge and a tiny green light.
She didn't touch it.
She stood, opened her camera, and photographed it from three angles.
An ambulance turned into the bay with lights flashing. The siren bounced between buildings.
Emily waited until it passed.
Then she called hospital security.
The guard who arrived wore a reflective jacket and carried a flashlight though it was daytime.
“Could be a tracker,” he said after kneeling beside the bumper.
“Could be?”
“Looks like one.”
“Don't remove it yet.”
He glanced up.
“Most people want these off.”
“I want police to see where it was.”
Her voice had gone calm.
Rosalind recognized that voice. Daniel had too.
It was the voice Emily used when a patient's pressure dropped and everyone else started moving too fast.
She called Lena, then the non-emergency police line.
While she waited, she sat on a concrete barrier near the parking structure. Cold seeped through her scrub pants.
Her phone buzzed on the wood-pattern case.
BARBARA: I heard the visit went well. I'm relieved.
Emily read the message twice.
Dana had left less than two hours earlier.
No report had been filed yet.
Emily typed a reply, erased it, and turned her ring three times.
*Not yet.*
She took a screenshot instead.
A police cruiser pulled into the lot.
Emily looked at the tracker beneath her car, then at Barbara's message.
May you like
Someone had been following her closely enough to know when CPS walked out her front door.
Keep reading Part 9 — because ten months of payments connect Barbara to the man who stood to gain from Daniel's death.
