“That swing has been there since Emma was six years old,” I said softly, my finger tracing the edge of the wooden seat in the photo.

“It’s still there,” Emma said, her voice dropping as she looked toward the backyard window.

“But you can’t get to it now.”

I stood up and walked to the sliding glass door, looking out into the dim yard.

The thick oak branch reached out over the new lawn boundary, and the wooden swing hung motionless, trapped on the wrong side of the high cedar boards.

Carl Henderson did not look at the wooden swing trapped behind the new cedar fence.