She went out into the hall, picked up the glass casserole dish from the porch table, and left the dollhouse on the living room rug.

I stood on the porch while her sedan backed down the driveway into the street.

In the living room, Emma was kneeling beside the wooden dollhouse, holding Barnaby, her little purple rabbit, up against her chin.

“Is Grandma angry with us?” Emma whispered.

“No, sweetie,” I said, sitting down next to her on the rug.

“We’re just going to look after each other.”

I took my phone out of my skirt pocket and called Marcus Vance’s direct office line.