Their stomachs.
Their hands under the dinner table.
Two years earlier, in a hospital room that smelled faintly of disinfectant and coffee, Claire had made me promise to take care of Emma.
I used to think that promise meant keeping food in the refrigerator, getting her to school, learning how to brush tangles out of her hair and remembering which stuffed animal had to travel with us.
Standing in my kitchen that morning, I understood another part of it.
Protection sometimes meant disappointing people who shared your last name.
I forwarded the recording to the child protection worker who had spoken with us at the hospital.
I also sent the screenshots of Brooke’s messages.
I included the time of my father’s call and wrote down, as accurately as I could remember, what he had told me.
I didn’t add adjectives.
I didn’t call anyone a monster.
