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 opened my messages.

I found every number he’d ever used.

Four of them.

I held the phone out to her.

“You do it,” I said.

She looked at me.

“Block them,” I said.

“All of them.”

“You press the buttons.”

“So you know it’s done.”

“So you don’t have to take my word for it.”

She took the phone with her good hand.

She pressed Block.

Four times.

Her tongue poked out the corner of her mouth.

The same way it did when she painted.

When she was done, she handed it back.

“Okay,” she said.

“Okay,” I said.

Then she leaned against me.

Just a little.

Just enough.

We drove home at noon.

Meredith drove.

Jason rode up front with his leg propped on the dash.

I sat in the back with Ruby.

Scout lay across both our laps.

Nobody said much.

When we pulled into the driveway, Ruby sat up.