Chapter 2 - What Was Buried Beneath the Diapers
Until that Thursday, I would have defended Hailey to anyone.
That is the part I still hate admitting.
If someone had pulled me aside in the grocery store and whispered that the woman caring for my one-year-old son might be hiding something from me, I probably would have smiled politely, thanked them for their concern, and gone home convinced they were wrong.
Because Hailey was not careless.
She was not unreliable.
She was not the kind of babysitter parents warned each other about in neighborhood groups.
She was almost perfect.
She had started looking after Miles the previous fall, when my maternity leave ended and I returned to my job at a regional insurance firm outside Columbus.
Going back to work had been harder than I expected.
I had spent twelve months learning the exact shape of my son's moods. I knew which little grunt meant hunger and which one meant he was tired. I knew he liked bananas but hated peas, loved his stuffed elephant but threw his stuffed giraffe out of the crib every night.
Leaving him with someone else felt unnatural.
Hailey changed that.
She arrived for her interview wearing jeans, a cream sweater, and a calm smile. She was twenty-eight, had worked with several families, and carried a folder filled with references.
More important, Miles liked her immediately.
He crawled across the living room and grabbed her shoelace.
Hailey laughed.
"Well," she said, looking down at him, "I guess that's my interview."
Colin laughed harder than I did.
My husband was usually the suspicious one.
He checked references twice. He researched contractors before allowing them into the house. He once spent forty minutes reading reviews before buying a toaster.
But even Colin liked Hailey.
Within two weeks, she knew Miles's schedule as well as we did.
Breakfast at seven-thirty.
Fruit around ten.
Lunch at noon.
Nap afterward.
She sent me pictures constantly.
Miles stacking wooden blocks.
Miles laughing with applesauce smeared across his cheeks.
Miles sitting in our backyard clutching a yellow plastic shovel.
Sometimes there were so many photos that Colin teased me.
"You realize you're paying her to babysit Miles, not produce a documentary about him."
"I like knowing what he's doing."
"He's one. He's mostly throwing things and trying to eat furniture."
"That's important information."
Everything felt normal.
Better than normal.
The house was frequently cleaner when I returned home.
Dishes put away.
Toys organized.
Laundry folded.
There were evenings when I walked through the front door and Hailey already had Miles changed into fresh pajamas.
"How are you doing this?" I asked once.
She smiled.
"He's easy."
I looked at my son, who had screamed for twenty minutes that morning because I would not let him chew an electrical cord.
"That cannot possibly be the same baby we're discussing."
Hailey laughed.
It became a joke between us.
Miles was an angel for Hailey and a tiny dictator for his parents.
The thing that mattered most was how he reacted whenever she arrived.
He adored her.
The second he heard her voice, his face brightened.
He kicked his legs.
He reached toward her.
One morning, I jokingly pretended to be offended.
"I carried you for nine months, Miles."
Hailey scooped him up.
"Sorry, Mom. I'm apparently the favorite."
That should have made me jealous.
Instead, it reassured me.
A child couldn't pretend to trust someone, I told myself.
If Miles loved Hailey, then she had to be treating him well.
That was what I believed.
There were signs.
Small ones.
The kind you explain away because they don't fit what you want to believe.
One evening, I came home at five-thirty and found Miles lying on the living room rug.
Not sleeping.
Just staring.
Usually, he crawled toward me the moment the door opened.
That day, he barely lifted his head.
I dropped my purse beside the couch.
"Hey, buddy."
Nothing.
I crouched beside him.
"Miles?"
His eyes moved toward me slowly.
My stomach tightened.
Hailey came from the kitchen carrying his cup.
"He had a huge day."
"What did you do?"
"We went outside after lunch. He kept chasing bubbles. Then he fought his nap for almost an hour."
I touched his forehead.
No fever.
"He's really tired."
"I know. Poor little guy wore himself out."
Her explanation made sense.
Babies got tired.
That was normal.
So I accepted it.
Another evening, Miles nearly fell asleep during dinner.
His head dipped forward over his tray.
Colin reached across the table and gently touched his shoulder.
"Whoa. Stay with us, buddy."
Miles blinked.
Then his eyes began closing again.
I looked toward Colin.
"Does that seem normal?"
He frowned.
"Didn't he nap?"
"Hailey said he slept almost two hours."
Colin watched him for another moment.
"Maybe a growth spurt."
I searched growth spurts on my phone that night.
The first article mentioned increased sleep.
That was enough.
I stopped worrying.
For three days.
Then it happened again.
And again.
Not every afternoon.
That was what made it confusing.
Sometimes Miles was completely normal.
Laughing.
Crawling.
Pulling himself onto furniture.
Other days, he seemed drained.
Hailey always had an explanation.
He skipped part of his nap.
He was teething.
He played outside.
He woke early.
Each explanation was individually reasonable.
Together, they formed a pattern I did not recognize until later.
There was another strange detail.
Our delivery driver.
He was probably somewhere in his forties, with short dark hair and the same brown cap almost every time I saw him.
I never knew his name.
He delivered to our neighborhood constantly because, after Miles was born, I seemed to order half our life online.
Diapers.
Formula.
Baby food.
Cleaning supplies.
Books.
Toys.
Once, an entire box filled with nothing but baby-proofing equipment Colin had ordered after Miles learned how to open kitchen cabinets.
The driver was careful.
If it rained, he pushed packages beneath the covered corner of the porch.
If a box was heavy, he placed it against the wall so it wouldn't block the door.
He knew we had a baby.
We had passed each other several times.
Once, when Miles was about nine months old, the driver smiled at him.
"Big guy's getting bigger."
Miles stared at him suspiciously.
"He's deciding whether you're trustworthy," I joked.
The driver laughed.
"Fair enough."
Our front door camera captured every delivery.
Unfortunately, its microphone had stopped working.
The video still worked perfectly.
The sound did not.
Colin ordered a replacement part.
Then forgot to install it.
Every few weeks, something funny happened.
The delivery driver would put down a package, turn toward the camera, and speak.
We could see his lips moving.
We couldn't hear anything.
The first time, I assumed he had said, "Package delivered."
The second time, Colin grinned.
"Your boyfriend's back."
"Oh, please."
"I'm just saying. Man keeps talking directly into our camera."
"Maybe he's confessing his love."
"Should I be worried?"
"You should be worried that your wife hasn't received a romantic gesture since 2024."
"I bought you tacos last Friday."
"Exactly."
It became another joke.
Nothing more.
Until Thursday.
Hailey arrived ten minutes early that morning.
She wore black leggings and a pale-blue sweatshirt, her blonde hair tied back.
Miles was sitting on the kitchen floor beating a wooden spoon against a plastic bowl.
The moment he saw her, he squealed.
"There's my guy," Hailey said.
Miles raised both hands.
She lifted him.
I watched his little face press into her shoulder.
There was no fear.
No hesitation.
Nothing that told me to stay.
"His breakfast is in the refrigerator," I said. "He woke up before six, so he'll probably need an earlier nap."
"No problem."
"And he didn't eat much dinner yesterday."
"I'll make sure he gets something."
I kissed Miles on the forehead.
"I love you."
He grabbed my hair.
"That's not exactly the emotional goodbye I wanted."
Hailey laughed.
"We'll be fine."
Those three words followed me later.
We'll be fine.
I left.
My morning disappeared into meetings.
At twelve-fifty-four, I was sitting at my desk reviewing a spreadsheet when my phone vibrated.
RING: MOTION DETECTED AT FRONT DOOR.
I almost ignored it.
Then I remembered the diapers.
I opened the notification.
The recording showed our delivery driver climbing the porch steps with two large boxes.
He placed them beside the door.
Adjusted the top one.
Then straightened.
Normally, that would have been the end.
But this time, he looked toward the side of our house.
Toward the narrow passage leading to the backyard.
Toward our trash cans.
His expression changed.
Even on the small screen, I noticed it.
The casual look disappeared.
His eyebrows pulled together.
He stared for several seconds.
Then he walked out of frame.
I sat straighter.
Five seconds passed.
Ten.
He came back.
He was holding something.
A flattened piece of cardboard.
My heart began beating faster.
The driver walked directly toward the camera.
He raised the cardboard.
Four words were written across it in thick black marker.
CHECK YOUR TRASH CAN.
I stared.
Then he lowered the sign.
He pointed toward the side of the house.
His lips moved.
No sound.
I replayed it.
CHECK YOUR TRASH CAN.
Again.
CHECK YOUR TRASH CAN.
My coworker Natalie leaned over the divider between our desks.
"You okay?"
I realized I had stopped breathing normally.
"Yeah."
"What happened?"
"I don't know."
I watched the recording a third time.
The driver wasn't smiling.
He wasn't joking.
He looked scared.
I called Hailey.
No answer.
I called again.
No answer.
My hands began to shake.
Natalie stood.
"Emily?"
I grabbed my bag.
"I need to go home."
"Is Miles okay?"
"I don't know."
That was the first time I said those words.
And something inside me changed the moment I heard them.
I drove home in eighteen minutes.
I don't remember most of the traffic.
I remember gripping the steering wheel.
I remember every red light feeling personal.
I remember calling Colin.
"What's wrong?" he answered.
"The delivery driver left a message."
"What message?"
"He wrote something on cardboard."
"What?"
I swallowed.
"Check your trash can."
Silence.
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know."
"Call Hailey."
"I did."
"And?"
"She's not answering."
His voice changed.
"I'm leaving work."
I turned into our subdivision.
"Colin, I'm almost there."
"Don't confront anybody alone."
"I'm checking the trash."
"Emily—"
I hung up.
The delivery truck was gone.
Hailey's car was still in the driveway.
I parked across the street.
For one moment, I stared at my own house.
Everything looked ordinary.
The white porch.
The flowerpots.
Miles's little red wagon near the garage.
Nothing looked dangerous.
That somehow scared me more.
Instead of going to the front door, I walked around the side of the house.
Our two trash cans stood beside the fence.
The first contained household garbage.
The second was half full.
I lifted the lid.
At first, I saw nothing unusual.
A cereal box.
Paper towels.
A grocery bag.
Then I noticed a small pharmacy bag.
It was tucked underneath several diapers.
I reached inside.
Pulled it out.
And froze.
There were empty packages inside.
A tiny plastic dropper.
Two small bottles.
Neither had our names on them.
Neither belonged to Miles.
Behind me, the back door opened.
"Emily?"
Hailey's voice.
I turned slowly.
She stood twelve feet away.
Her face had gone completely white.
And before I could ask a single question, she looked at the bag in my hand and whispered:
May you like
"You weren't supposed to find that."
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