Three days later, the hospital cleared Lily to go home.

I drove my own car, a black sedan, to the front entrance of the clinic.

Lily sat in the back seat, buckled securely into her new booster seat.

She held a small stuffed bear the nurses had given her.

The drive back to the Denver suburbs was quiet.

The snow on the pine trees was melting under the bright Colorado sun.

I turned the car onto the long, winding driveway of my family estate.

The iron gates stood open, the federal seal stickers still affixed to the brick pillars.

I parked the car in front of the stone facade.

The house looked large and empty, but the shadows were gone.

I walked around to the back door and lifted Lily out of her seat.

She was light in my arms, but she held on to me with surprising strength.

I carried her up the stone steps and unlocked the heavy oak door.

The hallway inside smelled of cedar and beeswax.

I set Lily down on the polished wood floor.

She looked around the high-ceilinged foyer, her eyes wide.