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.”

She was whispering.

She said he’d been acting strange all week and she was scared to be alone with him.

She asked me to come over.”

My chest tightened.

“I got there in twenty minutes.

Chloe met me at the door.

Daniel was in the living room.

He told us both to get in the car.

Said he needed to drive.

Said he needed air.” Ava’s jaw tightened.

“Chloe looked at me like she wanted me to say no.

But he was already holding the keys.”

“Why didn’t she call me?”

“She tried.

You didn’t pick up.”

I remembered that night.

I’d been at my sister’s.

We’d opened a second bottle of wine.

My phone had been somewhere in my bag.

“He got on the highway,” Ava continued.

“He was going too fast.

Chloe told him to slow down.

He told her to be quiet.” Her voice dropped to almost nothing.