A three AM phone call about a locked room changed everything

entirely over her hands. She looked at the sixty-dollar grocery receipt lying next to the breadboard, then out the window where the twilight was turning the suburban yard a dull shade of grey.

“Is Dad late for his custody drop-off?” Mia asked, her voice flat.

“He said he had a late meeting in Toledo,” I said, wrapping the turkey sandwiches in foil. “He continue reading …