I adopted the 16-year-old girl involved in my only daughter’s death — five years later, she whispered through tears, “Everything you know about that night is a lie.”

He had no idea what was sitting in my cardigan pocket.

After dinner, he settled into his chair in the living room with the television on.

I washed the dishes.

Ava dried them.

We didn’t speak.

We didn’t need to.

At nine-thirty, I said I was tired and went upstairs.

Daniel said goodnight without looking away from the screen.

I sat on the edge of the bed and took out Chloe’s note.

*I’m scared.

I love you.*

She had been scared.

She had tried to call me.

And I had been sitting at my sister’s table with a glass of wine, and I had not picked up the phone.