Interrogation

I can't help but overhear our five-year-old questioning our two-year-old.  "Brooke, did you move the ceramic nest that I brought home from school?  I made it in art class.  It's very special, and I had it right here.  Did you move it?"

Brooke says no.

"But you must have moved it.  It was here and now it's gone.  Tell me, did you move the nest?"

"No."

"Come on, Brooke.  I know you moved the nest.  Now tell me, did you move it?" 

"No."

Reese is getting more agitated.  "You moved the nest.  I know you moved the nest.  Tell me, where is the nest?"

The only things preventing this from being a full-blown interrogation is the lack of a locked-down room with a table, an uncomfortably bright low-hanging light fixture, and a one-way window with a sampling of intelligence experts watching from the outside while scribbling furitive notes on clipboards and making cryptic remarks to one another.

"I don't have the nest!"  Brooke's voice rises.

"Where is the nest?  Tell me.  Did you take the nest?"

Brooke cracks.  "Yes."

"I knew it!  Now tell me where you put it."

"I don't know."

"Why don't you know where you put it?"

Brooke pauses for just one moment.  "Because I didn't take it."

I'm not sure what to make of this exchange.  Either I have a daughter whose budding interrogation skills cause the innocent to admit to wrongdoings that they didn't commit, or I have a daughter who could (nearly) dodge a lie-detector test.

We've still haven't found the nest.