“She is there too,” he said.

“The court servers are meeting the police there to hand her the asset freezing injunction.”

We walked quickly through the concrete garage.

The air was damp and smelled of exhaust.

My father unlocked his old truck, the one he had driven when he was pretending to be a simple handyman.

I climbed into the passenger seat, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The vinyl seat was cold through my jeans.

He started the engine, and the old truck rumbled to life.

We drove out into the gray Columbus afternoon.

The rain was just starting to mist against the windshield.

“Do you think she really has people at our apartment?” I asked, looking out the window at the passing brick buildings.

“It was likely a distraction,” my father said, keeping his eyes on the road.

“She wanted us to run back there so we wouldn’t see what was happening to her father.”

He steered the truck toward the north side of the city, heading toward the wealthy suburb where my grandparents lived.

The drive took twenty minutes.

Neither of us spoke much.