I touched the back of Ernest’s favorite reading chair and whispered a quiet thank you into the dark.

On the polished dining table, exactly where they’d dumped the cages, I left my house keys. Beside them, a sealed envelope addressed to Austin. It didn’t contain a thank-you note.

It didn’t contain an apology. It didn’t contain a mother’s plea for love.

It contained one typed sentence:

Austin — when you find this, do not call me to complain or demand answers. Call your lawyer. You’ll need one.

Chapter 4 — The Ship

At half past five, the taxi honked in the driveway. The Florida air was thick and humid, but for the first time in decades it didn’t feel oppressive. It felt like an embrace.