I spent the next three days in the dusty, poorly lit attic, surrounded by boxes that smelled of damp cardboard and mothballs, searching for ghosts. Every night I worked a twelve-hour ER shift, dealing with traumas and codes, then came home to a different kind of war zone.

Richard and Patricia had stopped speaking to me. Instead they waged a psychological campaign. Patricia would cry loudly in the guest room whenever Grace walked past.

Richard took calls on the front porch, telling relatives loudly that I was “tossing an elderly couple and an orphaned child onto the streets right before the holidays.”

On the fourth day, I came downstairs for a glass of water and stopped dead in the dining room doorway.

Patricia was standing over the oak table, spreading out dozens of glossy, freshly printed photographs. At first I thought they were old vacation pictures.

Then my stomach turned. They were photos of Grace’s bedroom. Her open closet. Her dresser drawers pulled out, displaying her neatly folded clothes. Her desk.