Roberta’s smile held right up until the movers stepped down from the cab and walked past her toward the guest room, her room, and began carefully boxing her belongings instead of carrying anyone’s furniture in. Her tape measure slipped from her hand. “What are you doing?” she said. “Brianna’s things go in that room.” The lead mover glanced at his clipboard, then at me, waiting for the name he already had.

I set the thin blue folder on the breakfast table and slid it toward Damon. “This truck isn’t bringing Brianna in,” I said quietly. “It’s taking your mother out. And you’ll both want to read what’s inside before anyone says another word about who lives here.” Damon opened the folder. His face changed the instant he saw the first page, because printed at the top, in clean black letters, was the one fact they had spent two weeks pretending was not true.