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.

She pointed at the wall behind the cot.

I hadn’t even seen it.

Paintings.

Taped to the boards.

Rows of them.

I counted.

Fourteen.

One for every day.

Every single one was me.

Me at the kitchen table.

Me in the garden.

Me asleep on the couch with Scout.

Me standing in a doorway.

That one stopped my heart.

A woman in a doorway.

Just standing there.

Not going in.

“That’s you now,” Ruby said.

“Scout told me.”

She said it like it was obvious.

Like dogs tell little girls things all the time.

Maybe they do.

She looked past me at the door.

Jason stood there.

Meredith beside him.

Neither of them moved.

“Are you mad at Daddy?” Ruby whispered.

I kissed her forehead.

Right next to the bruise.

“Stay right here, baby,” I said.

“Keep painting.”

“I need to talk to Daddy and Aunt Mer outside.”

“Are you leaving?”