Victor insisted he had only brushed past the table.

But Victor had brought charm, and charm had always been his cleanest weapon.

The judge had ordered supervised transitions but not supervised visits.

—Children deserve both parents, the judge had said.

Mara had nodded because she had no choice.

Now Sol stood in front of her, zipped into fear.

—Disappear how? Mara asked.

Sol shrugged with only one shoulder.

—He said grown-ups disappear when they misbehave.

The words came out flat, rehearsed, as if she had been made to repeat them until they no longer sounded strange.

Mara reached for Sol’s hand, but stopped halfway.

She did not want to crowd her.

—Did Daddy tell you I misbehaved?

Sol’s eyes filled, but the tears did not fall.

—He said you talk too much.

Mara had to close her eyes for a moment.

Of course he had said that.

Victor hated being exposed more than he hated anything.

He hated witnesses.

He hated consequences.

He hated the fact that Mara had finally stopped explaining away his cruelty as stress, or childhood wounds, or a temper he could not control.

When she opened her eyes, Sol had taken one tiny step back.

Mara softened immediately.

—I’m not mad, sweetheart.

You are not in trouble.

Nothing you say will get you in trouble.

Sol looked at her then.

Her eyes were huge.

—He said you would say that.

The sentence hurt more than Mara expected.

It meant Victor had prepared her against comfort.

He had reached inside the safest place Sol had, the place where her mother’s voice lived, and poisoned it.

Mara sat fully on the floor now, knees bent, hands open on her lap.

—What did he make you do in the game?

Sol looked toward her backpack.

Then away.

Mara noticed.

—Is there something in there?

The little girl’s shoulders tightened.

—He said I have to keep it with me.

Mara’s mouth went dry.

—Keep what?

Sol lowered the backpack from her shoulder very slowly, like she was handling something that might wake up.

She placed it between them but did not unzip it.

—He said not to open it until you go to sleep.

Mara stared at the backpack.

It was purple with little silver stars on the front pocket.

She had packed it herself on Friday afternoon: pajamas, socks, toothbrush, two hair ties, the rabbit, and the drawing Sol wanted to show her father.

Nothing else.

Now the backpack looked like it belonged to someone else.

Mara’s hand moved toward it, then stopped.

She stood and walked to the kitchen counter for her phone.

She moved carefully, too carefully, aware that Sol was watching every step.

When the dispatcher answered, Mara’s voice was low but steady.

—My name is Mara Ellis.

My six-year-old daughter just returned from a court-ordered visit with her father.

She is frightened, and she said he made her play a secret game and threatened that I would disappear if she told me.

There may be something in her backpack that he told her to hide.

The dispatcher asked if they were safe.

Mara looked at the locked door.

—I don’t know.

That was the most honest thing she could say.

She gave the address.

The dispatcher told her to remain on the line, to keep