I pressed the stamped official court document flat against the window pane, so that the bright porch light lit up every single word of it, and my father, mid-swing, pulled his raised fist back, his knuckles hovering near the glass.

Behind him stood my mother, clutching an expensive leather handbag against her stomach.

Sabrina paced near the top step, glancing nervously up and down the dark street, as though worried the neighbors might see.

“Do you happen to remember Friday, July fourteenth?” I asked through the door, keeping my voice quiet and level.

My father wrinkled his brow, glaring at me.

“Hannah, open this lock right now so we can sit down inside like civilized people.