“Dad…” my daughter whispered. “I’m at the hospital. Uncle Ryan pushed me off the dock. He’s telling everyone I slipped… and the police believe him.”
In the background, I could hear the hollow beeping of monitors and distant voices — calm, clinical voices that didn’t match the terror in hers.
“Slow down, Lily,” I said, forcing my own voice steady. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
“I didn’t slip,” she cried. “He shoved me. I felt both his hands on my back. I went under and couldn’t breathe. The water was freezing. I thought I was going to die.”
She swallowed hard.
“He keeps telling the nurses I’m clumsy. Mom thinks I’m confused because I hit my head. The police are here, but they’re listening to him.”
That word — confused — hit me like a punch.
“Lily,” I said quietly, gripping the phone so tight my knuckles burned. “I believe you. Every word.”
“It’s almost three in the morning,” she whispered. “He keeps smiling at me like nothing happened. I’m scared he’ll try again.”
I was already on my feet, keys in hand.
Lily had been spending the weekend at her uncle Ryan’s lake house in Gravenhurst — two hours north of Ottawa. My ex-wife, Claire, insisted it would be good for her to bond with family.