And now your father is committing fraud to buy time.”

Eric stared at the CPS letter, his face draining of color. “He paid for the roof, Mel. I remember him writing the check.”

It felt like a fault line cracking open through my chest. My own husband was backing their play.

“He didn’t pay for it,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “My father paid for it. Richard just handed the contractor the check because my dad was in the hospital.”

“Can you prove that?” Eric asked, barely above a whisper.

I looked at the clock on the wall. I had thirty days to find a decade-old bank statement from a dead man’s closed account, or my daughter would be living with her abusers indefinitely.