I opened the blue folder and took out the top sheet of paper.

“On Tuesday afternoon at sixteen hundred hours, you walked out of my front door,” I said, reading the black text printed across the page.

Patricia’s hand froze on her earring.

“Hannah, this public scene is completely unnecessary,” Patricia said, her sweet tone dropping an octave.

“You turned the lock from the outside,” I said, keeping my voice clipped and steady so it carried across the tile floor.

“You left a four-year-old child locked in a house with no adult supervision, no open windows, and two inches of sour milk in a plastic cup.”