Richard had told me the agency was satisfied and that the remaining paperwork would be handled by mail.

“He fabricated the neglect reports,” Rose said, her eyes drilling into mine. “He used his connections at the county clinic to create a paper trail.”

She leaned closer, the scent of her cheap mints mixing with the grease from the kitchen.

“He made me look like an addict who had abandoned her child,” she said. “But I never left that hospital room until they forced me out.”

“Why?” I whispered. “Why would he do that?”

“Because he wanted a baby,” Rose said. “And he knew I was alone. He knew no one would fight for me.”

I looked down at the signature on the paper.

It was Richard’s handwriting, without a doubt.

The elegant, sweeping *R* that he used on our mortgage, on our tax returns, on the birthday cards he wrote to me every year.

The room seemed to tilt slightly.

The yellow lights of the diner flickered.

“I have to go,” I said, pushing myself up from the booth.

“Evelyn,” Rose said, reaching out to touch my sleeve.