“Helen, please just listen to me. What she’s hiding there is much dirtier than dust. The truth is right there, taped behind the frame.” Her words broke into a sob that chilled my blood.

With trembling hands, I walked to the living room. That painting had been there for fifteen years, ever since my daughter, Emily, and her husband, David, moved in with me after they lost their apartment. It was a simple painting of red flowers that Emily had chosen to “brighten up the room.” I never liked it, but I never said anything.