And I am so afraid my sweet Vivienne has inherited that same fragility.”

The neighbors turned to look at me with narrowed, disapproving eyes.

The deputy asked me, evenly, for proof.

And I had nothing to put on that counter — nothing but a story and a rage, and rage is not evidence.

I went home defeated, having accomplished the one thing worse than nothing: I had let Delilah, in front of witnesses, plant the idea that the victim was insane.

Vivienne understood the moment I walked in.