THE HOSPITAL SAID MY NINE-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER WAS GONE — AND MY HUSBAND BE.GGED THEM NOT TO LET ME SEE HER. TWO WEEKS AFTER THE FU.NERAL, OUR LOYAL DOG DR.OPPED HER YELLOW CARDIGAN AT MY FEET. IT WASN’T TORN. IT SMELLED LIKE HER SHAMPOO. AND THE SLEEVES WERE STILL WET WITH PURPLE PAINT.

Around the side.

“The back,” he said.

“The front’s just for show.”

I ran around the corner of the shed.

There was a second door.

Hidden behind a stack of old apple crates.

No lock.

Just a latch.

I threw it open.

Warm air hit my face.

A space heater glowed orange in the corner.

There was a cot with a quilt on it.

A camp stove.

A cooler.

A folding chair.

Meredith was sitting in it.

Sweatpants.

Reading glasses.

A paperback in her lap.

She stood up so fast the chair fell over.

“Hannah—”

I didn’t look at her.

I was looking at the easel.

It stood under the dusty window where the light came in.

There was a canvas on it.

Purple irises.

Half-finished.

And in front of the easel, on an upside-down crate, sat a little girl.

Brown ponytail.

Paint shirt.

A pink cast on her left wrist.