The house on Pinecrest Lane had never felt smaller.

Lily Kane, six years old and small enough to hide inside a blanket fort, suddenly carried the weight of every adult heartbeat in the room. The morning after Victor’s confession, the kitchen smelled of burnt toast and unspoken dread. Snow tapped against the windows like tiny fists begging to be let in. Lily sat on the bottom step of the staircase, knees pulled to her chest, clutching the worn teddy bear Anna had given her the night she left ...