Before we could finish assembling the evidence for the state police, Evelyn came to me.

She appeared on my porch one Sunday afternoon with a homemade lemon cake and — I saw it and my stomach turned — the same kind of brown cardboard file box my son was terrified of.

She came into my kitchen with a bright, warm smile, and she asked, so kindly, how the boy was sleeping.

Whether he was eating well.

Whether he had nightmares.

And then she said, with a gentleness that made my skin crawl: “You should be careful, Lucas, with the things that child tells you.