I adopted the 16-year-old girl involved in my only daughter’s death — five years later, she whispered through tears, “Everything you know about that night is a lie.”

“I’m fine,” Ava said.

“Just tired.”

“You seemed upset earlier.”

“Anniversary.

I told you.”

A pause.

“You know you can always talk to me,” Daniel said.

“About anything.”

I pressed my back against the wall.

“I know,” Ava said.

“Good.” Another pause.

“Sleep well.”

His footsteps moved toward the kitchen.

The tap ran briefly.

Then silence.

I went back to the bedroom and sat in the dark for a long time.

He was testing her.

He already knew something had shifted.