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.

“She was screaming.”

“She was screaming your name.”

“She was scared,” he said.

“Kids get scared.”

“She’ll get used to me.”

Something moved in the dusty window.

A small face.

A pink cast pressed against the glass.

Ruby.

Dale saw her.

His whole face changed.

Softened.

That was worse than the smile.

“Hey, Rubes,” he called.

Gentle.

Sweet.

Like a dad at a bus stop.

“Hey, baby girl.”

“It’s Daddy.”

“Your real one.”

Ruby screamed.

One high, thin scream.

Then the face vanished from the window.

I heard Jason inside.

Low and steady.

“I’ve got you.”

“I’ve got you.”

Dale turned back to me.

The softness was gone.

“See?” he said.

“She knows me.”

“I wrote her letters, Hannah.”

“Every month for seven years.”

“You never gave her one.”

“I burned them,” I said.

“Every one.”

“Unopened.”

His jaw went tight.

He took a step forward.

I didn’t move.

“Get out of the way, Hannah.”