“It looks like you.”
“I know.”
“Why does your dad say she’s different?”
“He says her mother took her.”
My mind stopped.
“What?”
Brenna looked at me.
“He says I came after.”
I felt cold.
“Who does he say you are?”
She whispered.
“I don’t know.”
Maya stepped closer.
“Brenna.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you were adopted?”
“No.”
“Foster care?”
“No.”
“Did you ever live somewhere else before this house?”
“I don’t remember.”
Seven years old.
Memories before four could be fuzzy.
But this did not fit.
I asked.
“Do you have a birth certificate?”
“Dad says papers lie.”
That sentence made every instinct in me fire.
Papers lie.
I looked at the binders.
Medical.
Education.
Compliance.
Then at the photograph.
Then the camera.
Something bigger was happening.
Our supervisor, Sergeant Collins, arrived with CPS caseworker Elena Ruiz.
Within minutes, the house changed.
Photographs were taken.
The quiet room documented.
Lists collected under appropriate authority.
