I watched his face through the screen. His jaw dropped. The healthy, pink color of his cheeks drained away instantly, leaving him looking incredibly old, wrinkled, and pale as a sheet.

He looked terrified. He knew exactly what it was.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Arthur stammered, his voice coming through my phone speaker, thin and shaking. “That’s just… that’s just a special light. Don’t tell your mommy about it, okay? It’s our little secret.”

I turned off the app. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. Something inside my chest just went completely cold, like ice water had been poured into my veins.

I stood up, grabbed my keys from the desk, and walked out of the clinic. My boss called after me, but I didn’t even turn around.

I drove home like a woman possessed, running a yellow light on Broad Street, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turned white.

When I burst through the front door, the house was quiet. The smell of lavender soap was in the air. Arthur was sitting on our worn sofa, reading a picture book to Lily as if nothing had happened.

He looked up at me, his smile wavering just a fraction. “Claire! You’re home early.”

I walked over to Lily, took her by the arm, and led her out to my SUV. I buckled her into her car seat, locked the doors, and kept the air conditioning running. She looked confused, her mouth still smelling of artificial butter and sugar.

“Stay here, baby,” I said. “Mommy has to talk to Grandpa.”

I walked back into the house. Arthur was standing in the hallway now. He had our stepstool out, and he was standing on it, reaching up toward the smoke detector with his pocket knife.

“What are you doing, Arthur?” I asked, my voice incredibly flat.

He jumped, nearly losing his balance. He turned around, his face pale, his hands trembling. “Oh, Claire.

I noticed this smoke detector was blinking. I thought the battery might be dying. I was just going to check it for you.”

“It’s not a smoke detector, Arthur,” I said. “I watched you. I watched you lock the door.”

He stared at me. The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. The pocket knife in his hand looked ridiculous, a tiny silver tool against his gray wool trousers.

“Claire, you have to understand,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “She was playing. I was just making sure she didn’t drown. I would never… I’m a Sunday school teacher, Claire. You know me.”

“I saw you,” I said.

I pulled out my phone and dialed the sheriff’s department. Arthur didn’t try to stop me. He just sat down on our entryway bench, burying his face in his liver-spotted hands, weeping softly.

But the betrayal didn’t stop there.

When Greg got home from the plant, the police cruiser was parked in our driveway. The neighbors were standing on their porches, whispering and pointing.