I was chopping vegetables when my four-year-old daughter

a year.

I stand so quickly my chair tips back.

Andrew reaches for me.

“Melissa—”

“She has a box.”

His eyes widen.

“The shoebox.”

“She took it from our apartment.”

He grabs his coat.

“I’m going back.”

“No,” I say.

“I need to find it.”

“No. She wants you alone.”

He stops.

The truth of that hits both of us.

Diane does not send messages by accident.

She throws hooks.

She continue reading …