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.”

Then we both heard it.

The sound of Daniel’s truck pulling back into the driveway.

—

What’s written on that paper — and why did Daniel come back early?

Ava shoved the note into my hands.

“Read it.

Right now.

Before he gets inside.”

My fingers wouldn’t cooperate.

The paper shook as I unfolded it.

Chloe’s handwriting — I would know it anywhere, the looping C, the way she pressed too hard on every vowel.

*Mom.

If something happens tonight, it wasn’t Ava’s fault.

Daniel has been lying to you.

I don’t know how to tell you what I know.

I’m scared.

I love you.

— C*

The front door handle moved.

I folded the note and pushed it into my cardigan pocket in one motion.

Ava was already on her feet, the jacket bundled behind her back.

Daniel stepped inside.

He was still in his work clothes.