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.

Ruby was sitting on the cot.

Knees pulled up.

Scout’s head in her lap.

She’d been crying.

She’d heard everything.

Those boards were thin.

I sat down next to her.

The cot sagged.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi.”

“Are you okay?”

“Is he gone?”

“He’s gone.”

“The police took him.”

“He’s not coming back.”

She nodded.

She scratched Scout’s ears.

“Mom?”

“Yeah, baby.”

“Are you mad at Daddy?”

“I’m—”

I stopped.

I tried to find the true answer.

“I’m very, very angry,” I said.

“And I love him.”

“Both at the same time.”

“Is that allowed?”

“I think it has to be.”

She thought about that.

Then she said the thing I will hear for the rest of my life.

“Don’t be mad at Daddy for not telling you.”

“He wanted to tell you.”

“The very first day.”

“He cried about it.”

“I made him promise not to.”

I turned to look at her.