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.

“He ran back to the truck.”

“He took off.”

“The plates were stolen.”

“The truck was never found.”

“The police said it’s his word against a concussed nine-year-old.”

“How do you know it was him?” I said.

My voice was shaking now.

“How do you know it wasn’t just some—”

Jason pulled out his phone.

He opened his photos.

He turned the screen toward me.

A picture of our car’s windshield.

In our own driveway.

Dated six weeks ago.

Under the wiper was a folded piece of notebook paper.

One line.

Block letters.

“TELL MY DAUGHTER I’M COMING.”

I stared at it.

“Six weeks,” I said.

“You’ve known for six weeks he was out.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t tell me.”

“No.”

“Why?”

He looked at me for a long moment.

“Because you would have given him a chance,” he said.

“You always give him a chance.”

“That’s not—”

“He knew about art class, Hannah.”