Someone had turned that lock.

And in the half-second before the door swung open, some part of me that I had been refusing to listen to for months finally spoke up, quietly and with terrible certainty, and told me exactly whose hand had done it.

Chapter 7 — On the Cold Floor

She was sitting on the cold tile floor beside a big industrial washing machine that rumbled and shook, her knees pulled up tight against her chest, small in her pale-blue dress under the flat fluorescent light.

Her wicker basket lay on its side where it had fallen.