My mother came back from the beach laughing without my six-year-old daughter, saying she had “forgotten” her like a towel.

Mia hid her face in my shirt. I showed the deputies her wrists. The older one, Deputy Mercer, stopped writing. His face hardened with the quiet seriousness of someone who recognized when a child was telling the truth.

He crouched several feet away from Mia and softened his voice.

“No one is in trouble for telling the truth. Can you tell me who held your arms?”

Mia whispered, “Uncle Victor.”

For half a second, my mother stopped crying. Chloe stared at the ground. Dad muttered,