Vincent held the phone out, and the name on the screen was Claire Whitlock. My daughter. I had not heard her voice in five years, since the week after Walter’s funeral, when Garrett told me she wanted nothing more to do with me. For five years, I had believed my own daughter had abandoned me. My hands shook so hard that Mrs. Delgado had to steady the phone for me.

Then headlights swept across the porch. A dusty gray sedan stopped at the curb, and a woman climbed out, thin and tired, carrying a leather folder. She froze when she saw me. “Mom?” she whispered. Vincent rose slowly. “Ms. Whitlock, I called the number on the deed.” Behind her, a second pair of headlights turned onto our street, and I recognized Garrett’s truck speeding toward us.