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.

“Once she was safe.”

“I swear, Hannah.”

“I was going to drive back and tell you everything.”

“That’s what ‘yet’ meant.”

I looked at the closed door of the shed.

I could hear the scratch of her brush on the canvas.

“Did she ask for me?” I said.

Meredith’s eyes filled.

“Every day,” she said.

“Every single day,” Jason said.

“First thing in the morning.”

“Last thing at night.”

“‘Can Mom come yet?'”

“And every day, I said, ‘Soon.'”

My phone buzzed.

In the pocket of my robe.

I hadn’t even realized I’d brought it.

I pulled it out.

A new number.

Of course.

“Pretty morning for a walk.”

Ice ran straight down my spine.

Another text.

“Didn’t know you liked orchards.”

And another.

“Nice dog.”

I turned the screen toward Jason.

He read it.

He went gray.

He moved to the corner of the shed.

He looked down the long row of apple trees toward the tractor road.