Seven years old and already keeping secrets. The thought made my chest tight, a physical constriction that had nothing to do with the cold. I pulled out the folded scrap of notebook paper. Emma’s careful, second-grade handwriting emerged, the letters looped and large.

Dad, check under your bed tonight. Grandma hid something there yesterday.

The world stopped. The wind died. The only sound was the rushing of blood in my ears.

Grandma. Bernice Wright. My ex-mother-in-law. The woman who looked at me like I was a stain on her expensive carpet. She had been in my house yesterday? Yesterday was Thursday. Kathy, my ex-wife, had texted asking if Emma could stay an extra night because of a school event Friday morning near my district. I had agreed immediately. Any extra time with Emma was precious currency.

Kathy had dropped her off Wednesday evening and picked her up Friday afternoon. Normal. Unremarkable. Except, apparently, Bernice had let herself in at some point.

How the hell did she have a key?