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.”

I want you both to go home, act normally, and do not confront him.

Do not give him any indication that anything has changed.”

“He’s already suspicious,” Ava said.

“He cornered me last night.”

Patricia looked up sharply.

“What did he say?”

“He said I could talk to him about anything.

He was checking whether I’d told her.” Ava nodded toward me.

“He does that.

He asks soft questions and watches your face.”

“Then we move tonight.” Patricia stood.

“Go home.

Make dinner.

I’ll call you by eight.”

We drove home in near silence.

Ava stared out the passenger window.

I kept both hands on the wheel and thought about the first year after Chloe’s passing — how Daniel had held me while I cried, how he had spoken at her memorial, how he had said her name like it cost him something.