By two in the morning, a uniformed police officer was sitting across from me at the small laminate table in the family room.

His heavy yellow gear belt creaked loudly every time he shifted his weight in the hard plastic chair.

Brooklyn was asleep on the pullout sofa behind us, wrapped tightly in the scratchy blue hospital blanket with her crayon drawing tucked under her hand.

“State your full legal name and your relationship to the individual in question,” the officer said, holding the tip of his black ballpoint pen an inch above his small notepad.

“Claire Bennett,” I said.