We refused to push for full criminal fraud charges that would leave him bankrupt and out on the street.

Mark kept his house on Elm Street, but his hold on Emma was over, and his second life in Oakridge was gone.

Emma nodded once, slowly, and said nothing.

She ate three more spoonfuls while the cold wind rustled the high branches of the oak tree above us.

“I like the small bedroom upstairs,” she said.

“The closet smells like cedar.”

“That was your mother’s closet when she was seven,” I told her.