I answered on the second ring with my hand shaking. “Janet?” I said. My daughter’s godmother, my friend of thirty years, and the one person who had helped me tour the house, let out a shaky breath. “Please do not hang up,” she whispered. “Brian called me crying yesterday. He said Whitney was sick and they had nowhere to live. I gave him the address. I never thought he would actually do this.”

My stomach turned over. “And the code?” I asked. Janet went quiet. “You wrote it on the back of the inspection receipt,” she said. “I took a photo, just in case you forgot it. I am so sorry.” On my screen, an officer was knocking on the truck, and Brian was waving his arms. Then Janet said, very softly, “There is something else you need to know about Whitney.”