I called 911 with my left hand while my right hand kept moving from Chloe’s face to Daniel’s wrist and back again.
The dispatcher asked questions.
I answered what I could.
Address.
Two unconscious.
Chemical smell.
Child breathing.
Husband breathing.
Front door unlocked.
Time of Chloe’s smartwatch call logged at 3:17 p.m.
By 3:31 p.m., sirens cut through our neighborhood.
By 3:34 p.m., two police officers and the first paramedics were inside my kitchen.
The house changed around them.
Our ordinary rooms became evidence.
The broken white mug.
The cracked ceramic.
Daniel’s laptop open on the island with a spreadsheet still glowing.
The cinnamon plug-in near the hallway outlet, hot to the touch.
The little brass key dish by the door, sitting exactly where Daniel always left it.
Almost exactly.
One officer moved toward the laundry room.
Another asked me to step back while the paramedics lifted Chloe onto a stretcher.
