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.

“Tell me why.”

“Tell me right now.”

“Or I take her home and call the police.”

“And you can explain it to them.”

Jason stepped forward.

He was walking fine.

A little stiff, maybe.

“The leg,” I said.

“Was that a lie too?”

“The fibula’s cracked,” Meredith said.

“It’s not weight-bearing.”

“He can walk on it.”

“It just hurts.”

“The crutches were for you,” Jason said.

“So you wouldn’t expect me to go anywhere.”

“So you wouldn’t follow me.”

“Why would I follow you?”

Jason looked at his sister.

She nodded.

“Because of the truck, Hannah,” he said.

“The truck that hit us.”

“It didn’t run the light by accident.”

“It was sitting at the corner.”

“Engine running.”

“It waited for us.”

“And when we came through, it came straight at Ruby’s side.”

My stomach rolled over.

“I saw it coming,” he said.

“I swerved.”

“We spun.”

“It hit my door instead of hers.”