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.

I didn’t answer.

“She’s in there,” he said.

“Isn’t she.”

“I heard her.”

“That little song.”

“I remember that song.”

“She used to hum it in her car seat.”

My hands were shaking.

I put them in my robe pockets.

Right next to the phone.

“Dale,” I said.

“Did you drive that truck into my husband’s car?”

He laughed.

“I didn’t drive it into anything.”

“I drove it in front of him.”

“He’s the one who didn’t stop.”

“I just wanted to take her for the day.”

“One day.”

“Saturday.”

“Art class.”

“You told me yourself.”

He spread his hands.

“You wanted me to see her, Hannah.”

“You sent me the picture.”

“You told me where she’d be.”

“You practically buckled her into my truck.”

Inside the shed, nothing moved.

In my pocket, the dispatcher had gone completely silent.

Listening.

“You tried to pull her out of a wrecked car,” I said.