By nine thirty that night, Lucy was asleep in her bedroom with her plush rabbit tucked next to her pillow under the quilt.

Evan sat on the edge of our bed in his dark green work pants, rubbing his knuckles while a car idling in the driveway shone its bright headlights through our bedroom blinds.

A sharp knock rang against the front door frame, followed by two quick raps.

I went down the hall stairs, opened the front door, and found a courier in a dark blue jacket holding a legal clipboard and a ballpoint pen.

“Are you Clara?” he asked.