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.”

— brief, cold, no apology.

*Staying at Ray’s.

Don’t contact me.*

I read it once and set the phone face-down.

Ava was on the couch, her knees pulled up, watching nothing in particular on the television.

I sat in the armchair across from her.

“He’s not coming back tonight,” I said.

She nodded slowly.

“Is he going to try to make this go away?”

“He’s going to try,” I said.

“His lawyer will look for every angle.

He’ll try to discredit you.

He’ll try to discredit Marcus.

He may try to make me look unstable.” I looked at her directly.

“Are you prepared for that?”

“I’ve been preparing for it for five years,” she said.

“Every time I sat across from him at dinner, I was preparing for it.”

I believed her.

Three days later, Daniel’s lawyer sent a formal letter through Patricia.