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.”

“Thought I’d cook tonight,” he said.

He smiled at me.

Then he looked at Ava.

“How was your day?”

“Fine,” she said.

“I went for a drive.

Cleared my head.”

“Good.” He turned back to the stove.

“That’s good.”

I set my bag down and went upstairs to change.

In the bedroom, I checked my phone.

No message from Patricia yet.

I changed my clothes and went back down.

We ate dinner.

Daniel talked about the news, about a road closure near his office, about whether we should repaint the back fence before winter.

I answered everything.

Ava answered everything.

The pasta was good.

I told him so.

After dinner, he poured himself a whiskey and settled into his chair.

At 8:12, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

I stood up and said I was going to check on the laundry.

In the hallway, I read Patricia’s message.