Chapter 7 - The Recording Hidden Inside a Teddy BearThe following morning, Detective Reynolds arrived with a new development.
“We've located a traffic camera near the road where Katie was found,” he said. “The footage is being enhanced, but we have already confirmed that Andrew's SUV stopped there.”
“And Barbara?”
“A second vehicle appears in the footage. We believe it may be hers.”
I sat upright.
“So she was there.”
“Possibly. We need to confirm the registration and establish who was driving.”
“Why would she follow them?”
“That is what we're trying to determine.”
The detective took a seat beside the window.
“We also found something during a search of the repair garage. The mechanic says your husband asked him to replace the front bumper quickly and not create a detailed invoice.”
“Did the mechanic know about the collision?”
“He says Andrew told him the damage came from a parking accident. But once he saw the news report about Katie, he contacted us.”
I thought about the family photographs on our living-room wall. Andrew always stood behind Katie in those pictures, his hands resting on her shoulders.
How many times had she flinched when he touched her?
How many small signs had I mistaken for ordinary childhood moods?
After Reynolds left, a nurse came to Katie's room carrying a plastic bag of personal belongings recovered from the scene.
“Your daughter was wearing a small backpack when the ambulance arrived,” she explained. “It was damaged, but everything inside has been catalogued.”
I recognized the purple bag immediately.
Katie carried it everywhere. It contained her gymnastics water bottle, hair ties, a notebook, and a stuffed rabbit named Buttons that my father had given her on her fifth birthday.
The rabbit was old and lopsided, with one ear repaired using yellow thread.
I had assumed it was still at home.
When I pulled it from the bag, something inside made a faint clicking sound.
I frowned.
Buttons had never made a sound before.
I examined the loose seam along its back. The yellow thread had been disturbed, and a tiny black plastic object was lodged inside the stuffing.
My heart began to beat faster.
I did not pull it apart or attempt to investigate it myself. I called the nurse and asked her to contact the police because I had found a possible electronic device concealed inside my daughter's toy.
Reynolds arrived within twenty minutes.
He examined the object without removing it and arranged for it to be handled as potential evidence.
“Did Katie know this was inside?” he asked.
“I don't know.”
He spoke to the hospital staff about preserving the toy and the device. Later, he returned to tell me that the object appeared to be a small digital recording device.
It had a damaged casing but might contain recoverable audio.
“Why would anyone hide a recorder in her rabbit?” I asked.
“We don't know yet. We need the forensic team to examine it.”
A thought struck me.
“Andrew gave Katie an identical rabbit last Christmas. Could he have put it there?”
“It's possible, but we won't assume that without evidence.”
I remembered that Christmas.
Andrew had insisted on buying the gift himself, claiming he wanted something special for his daughter. Katie had loved Buttons for years, and he had joked that it was time she had a second one.
She had refused the new rabbit and tucked it into a drawer.
The old one had gone everywhere with her.
That afternoon, Katie asked for Buttons.
I explained that the police needed to keep it safe for a little while.
She looked disappointed.
Then she whispered, “Daddy told me never to turn it on.”
I went cold.
“Who told you that?”
“Daddy. He said it was broken and that I shouldn't open it because the batteries could hurt me.”
I sat down beside her.
“Did he put something inside it?”
Katie nodded.
“He did it when I was asleep on the sofa. I saw him sewing it later.”
“Did he say why?”
“He said it was our secret.”
I asked no more questions.
Instead, I held her hand and called Reynolds.
When he returned, he told me the forensic team had recovered several audio files from the damaged device. The files were being examined, and he couldn't disclose their contents yet.
“But one appears to have been recorded recently,” he said. “We can confirm that much.”
I looked at the closed evidence folder.
For weeks, my husband had hidden something inside our daughter's favorite toy.
Whatever it contained had survived the collision that nearly killed her.
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And when Reynolds left the room, he took the recording with him.
I watched him walk away, knowing that the next time he returned, the sound of Andrew's voice might change everything.
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