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.

“You did?”

She nodded.

She wouldn’t look at me.

“Why, Ruby?”

She picked at the edge of her cast.

“Because you’d tell him,” she whispered.

“You always tell him.”

“I saw your phone.”

“Before.”

“In the kitchen.”

“He sent a picture of a heart.”

“And you sent him my sunflower.”

“You said he’s sick and sick people get better.”

“But he wasn’t sick, Mom.”

“He was just mean.”

“And you didn’t know the difference.”

The heater ticked.

Scout sighed.

I couldn’t breathe.

My daughter had spent fifteen days in a shed.

Not only because a man was hunting her.

Because she didn’t trust her own mother not to lead him to her.

And she was right.

She was nine years old.

And she was right.

I didn’t defend myself.

There was nothing to defend.

I took my phone out of my robe pocket.

The deputy had copied what she needed and handed it back.