A babysitter discovered the stepmother attempting to harm her 7-year-old stepdaughter with a hot hair curler and falsely accused her. Security camera footage exposed the truth.
The air in Nia’s room felt heavy, thick with a strange tension that had nothing to do with the usual morning rush. Alexis stood frozen, a curling iron clutched in her hand.
It was one of those high-end, digital display models, the kind that heats up in seconds and costs more than my rent. The red glow on its screen screamed “400 degrees Fahrenheit.”
Nia, still in her pajamas, sat on the edge of her bed, her small shoulders hunched. Her eyes were wide, fixed on me.
Alexis’s hand flew to her side, dropping the iron onto Nia’s vanity with a soft thud. It bounced once, then settled amongst a scattering of hair ties and glitter.
“Oh, hey, Zola,” Alexis said, a brittle smile stretching her lips. “Just… checking on Nia’s hair. Getting ready for the day.”
Her voice was a little too loud, a little too bright.
I looked from the iron to Nia’s tangled curls, then back to Alexis. The iron was clearly on, but it wasn’t near Nia’s head. Not anymore.
“Checking on it?” I asked, my voice calm, neutral. “With a hot iron?”
Alexis laughed, a quick, nervous sound. “Oh, no, of course not. I was just… admiring it. Such a pretty style.”
She reached out and gave Nia’s shoulder a squeeze, but Nia flinched, pulling away slightly.
That curling iron. I recognized the distinct pearlescent white handle and the precise digital display. It was the same model I’d seen on the stylist’s table during Nia’s last photoshoot. The one where Nia had been struggling to replicate a specific look.
I remembered Nia saying, “I wish I could use that one. But it burned me once. Mommy Alexis says it’s too hot for my hair.”
And yet, here Alexis was, holding it in Nia’s room, on and blazing.
“Right,” I said, stepping further into the room. I picked up a stray hair clip from the rug. “Well, Nia, time for breakfast. Your favorite, right? Blueberry pancakes.”
Nia’s eyes flickered to me, a small spark of relief. She slid off the bed, eager to escape the space.
Alexis watched us both, her smile still plastered on, but something in her eyes had hardened. A flicker of something I couldn’t quite place.
Later that morning, as Nia ate her pancakes, I started putting the pieces together. Nia had *explicitly* said she never used that particular iron because it burned her once. She said Alexis told her it was too hot.
So why was Alexis in Nia’s room, holding that exact iron, set to 400 degrees, at 7 AM? And why the immediate, clumsy lie?
It clicked. Either Alexis was forcing Nia to do her own hair with an iron she wasn’t allowed to use, or she was lying to cover something else entirely. Maybe she’d been doing Nia’s hair herself, despite Nia’s aversion. Or worse.
A knot tightened in my stomach. The Delacroix household, with its polished surfaces and forced smiles, suddenly felt much colder. I watched Alexis carefully for the rest of the day, every one of her “perfect mom” actions now tainted with a new, unsettling suspicion.
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