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.

The voice.

Low.

Rushed.

I’d known it.

Somewhere under the shock, I had known that voice.

“So I made a choice,” Meredith said.

“In about four seconds.”

“I told you she was gone.”

“Because if you believed it, he’d believe it.”

“He’d hear it from you.”

“And a man doesn’t hunt for a little girl he thinks is already gone.”

I stared at her.

“You didn’t have the right,” I said.

“No,” Meredith said.

“I didn’t.”

“And I’d do it again.”

“I registered her upstairs as a confidential patient.”

“Hospitals do it for kids in danger all the time.”

“She was Jane Doe on the pediatric floor for two nights.”

“Then I brought her here.”

“Mrs. Pruitt was my patient for ten years.”

“She gave me the key before she moved.”

“We were leaving Sunday,” Jason said.

“My cousin’s place in Oregon.”

“Once she was out of state, I was going to tell you.”