“Daddy put something inside my sister’s belly,” a seven-year-old girl told the desk officer. Then she clarified, “He made her swallow it and said not to tell.”

The Carter home in Oak Park was a two-story Victorian with dark blue siding, white trim, and a manicured lawn that had been turned into a sodden marsh by the relentless rain.

It sat far back from the street, framed by overgrown oak trees whose bare branches clawed at the gray sky. There were no lights on inside. The house looked dark, cold, and imposing—a monument to wealth and absolute control.

Daniel pulled his patrol car up to the curb two houses down, turning off his headlights and strobes. Rain hammered against the windshield, blurring the view of the front porch.

He stepped out into the downpour, pulling his flashlight from his belt and adjusting his collar against the chill. He walked up the wet concrete path, his boots sinking slightly into the saturated mud.

He didn't go to the front door. He walked around the side, stepping over a child’s plastic tricycle lying overturned in the grass, its red paint peeling under the rain.

At the back of the house, a covered porch sheltered a pair of French doors leading into the kitchen.

Daniel shone his flashlight through the glass. The kitchen was spotless. Stainless steel appliances gleamed under the beam of light. High-end granite countertops held no dirty dishes, no stray mail, no signs of life. It didn't look like a home where two seven-year-old girls lived; it looked like a staging house for an architectural magazine.

Daniel checked the handle of the left French door.

It turned effortlessly. The latch clicked open with a soft, metallic sound. Michael Carter had indeed left it unlocked when he rushed out to chase down his daughters—or perhaps he had left it unlocked deliberately to support his story of a break-in or escape.

Daniel pushed the door open three inches.

"Police department," Daniel called out, his voice low and firm. "Welfare check."

Only the steady dripping of a leaky kitchen faucet answered him.

Daniel stepped inside, closing the door behind him to keep the rain out. The air inside the house was thick, smelling faintly of expensive lemon wood polish, ozone, and something sharp and medicinal underneath—a smell that immediately brought to mind the precinct lobby earlier that afternoon.

He drew his sidearm, keeping it held low in a two-handed ready position, his flashlight beam sweeping across the polished hardwood floors.

He passed through the kitchen and into a central hallway. To the left was a dining room with a long glass table; to the right, a formal sitting room where a framed family portrait hung above a cold marble fireplace.

Daniel stopped and held his flashlight on the portrait.

In it, Michael Carter stood behind a elegant woman with dark hair and pale skin—their mother. Michael’s hands rested firmly on her shoulders, his fingers pressed so tightly into her silk blouse that the fabric bunched up beneath his grip. In front of them sat Emma and Olivia, barely four years old at the time, dressed in matching white dresses, neither of them smiling.

The mother’s eyes in the photograph possessed the same hollow, exhausted look that Daniel had seen in Olivia’s eyes at the precinct.

Daniel moved past the portrait and took the wooden staircase to the second floor. Each step creaked softly under his weight.

At the top of the stairs, three doors opened off a central hallway. The first was a children's bedroom filled with twin beds, identical pink comforters, and shelves lined with neatly organized books and stuffed animals. Everything was arranged with clinical symmetry—no toys on the floor, no messy clothes.

The second door was a locked home office with a brass keypad beside the handle.

The third door at the end of the hall was the master bedroom.

Daniel stepped inside the master bedroom. The king-sized bed was made with hospital-tight corners. A massive cedar wardrobe stood against one wall, and to the left was a walk-in closet with double doors.

Daniel walked into the closet. Suits were hung by color gradient—black, charcoal, navy, beige. Below them sat rows of polished leather shoes on raised racks.

Daniel crouched down near the back right corner, just as Emma had described.

He set his gun on his knee, pulled back a row of heavy winter boots, and shone his flashlight on the baseboard.

There was a small gap between the carpet edge and the stained oak flooring. Daniel pulled a pocket knife from his belt, inserted the flat blade into the seam, and pried upward.

A four-foot section of floorboard lifted away with a soft popping sound.

Beneath it lay a shallow cutout between the floor joists.

Daniel raised his flashlight.

Inside the space lay three glass vials sealed with rubber stoppers, liquid shimmering clear under the LED light. Beside them sat a silver metal briefcase, and tucked right beside the briefcase was a leather-bound red notebook with a black elastic band holding it shut.

Daniel reached out, his heart pounding against his ribs, his gloved fingers wrapping around the spine of the red book.

Suddenly, a loud, heavy metallic thud echoed from the bottom of the stairs down in the main hallway.

Daniel froze.