“Yes, sweetie,” I said, reaching down to help her up.

“It’s dinnertime.”

We sat together at the little pine table in the kitchen and ate in the warm evening light.

The back door stayed locked, and the driveway outside stayed completely empty.

I looked at my daughter’s green eyes and the faint red mark by her hairline, knowing that no matter what Monday morning brought, we were never going back to that house in Rochester Hills.

Patricia picked the backdated document up off the table, folded it twice, and dropped it into her leather handbag without another word.