I’m not a voyeuristic perv; the photo shoot was not premeditated. I had been roused from a deep slumber by thumps and bangs and Freya’s angry shrieks. I’d considered ignoring the cacophony. They wouldn’t thank me for my interference if it was just another squabble like last time. But something—concern or curiosity—had drawn me out of bed and up the stairs. By then, the cries had ceased, morphed into gasps and moans, the thumps into a rhythmic knocking. What I saw from my vantage point on the second-top step was rough and wrong . . . and so hot.

I’d had my phone in my hand—I must have grabbed it on autopilot in case I needed the flashlight app. Crouching lower on the stairs, I took a video of the action, and several still shots. It was for my viewing pleasure . . . for flexing my recently discovered sexuality muscle. And it was collateral. If things went wrong with Freya again, if she tried to boot me from her universe, I would have ammunition.

But if Britney Chin found the photos under the mattress, all hell would break loose. Was rough-sex porn starring a baby’s parents grounds for the child’s removal? What if the rough sex porn had been secretly documented by the nanny? Did that make it better or worse? I didn’t know. But I knew that Freya would fire me. I knew she’d find my phone on the dresser and she would smash it, drown it, destroy the evidence. She’d come for my camera, too. It was still on the chair, and I scooped it up by the strap. But I couldn’t protect it and hold Maggie at the same time. I waited, my heart in my throat, for Freya’s angry voice. And then I heard their feet coming up the stairs.

The women entered the room and, while their expressions were grim, it was clear they had not found the photos or the marijuana. Britney strode purposefully into the living area, the last unexplored space. Maggie was dozing now, exhausted from her previous outburst, and I breathed a sigh of relief. The CPS worker scoured the room, but I knew we were in the clear.

“What is this?” Britney asked. She was holding a handful of tiny pellets.

“I—I don’t know,” Freya stammered.

“A rattle broke,” I said quickly, hoping they wouldn’t ask me to explain how. “I was going to vacuum.”

“This should have been cleaned up immediately,” Ms. Chin remarked. “They’re a choking hazard.”

“The baby can’t even crawl,” Freya said, with a roll of her eyes. “How would she get one into her mouth?”

Britney seemed mildly flustered. “You haven’t done any baby proofing.”

“We will,” I said quickly. “In the next couple of weeks.”