Tully took one last, lingering look around her bedroom, noticing as if for the first time things she’d overlooked for years: the lavender ruffled bed linens and white twin bed, the row of plastic horses—dusty now—that lined the windowsill, the Mrs. Beasley doll on the top of the dresser, and the Miss America jewelry box with the pink ballerina on top.

Gran had decorated this room for the little girl who’d been dumped here all those years ago. Every item had been chosen with care, but now they’d all be boxed up and stored in the dark, along with the memories they elicited. Tully wondered how long it would be before she could think of Gran without crying.

She closed the door behind her and followed the woman through the now-quiet house, down the steps outside, to the street in front of house, where a battered yellow Ford Pinto was parked.

“Put your suitcase in the back.”

Tully did as she was told and got into the passenger seat.

When the lady started up the car, the stereo came on at an ear-shattering level. It was David Soul’s “Don’t Give Up on Us.” She immediately turned it down, mumbling, “Sorry about that.”

Tully figured it was as good a song to apologize for as any, so she just shrugged and looked out the window.

“I’m sorry about your grandmother, if I haven’t said that already.”

Tully stared at her weird reflection in the window. It was like looking at a negative version of her face, colorless and insubstantial. The way she felt inside, actually.

“By all accounts she was an exceptional woman.”

Tully didn’t answer that. She couldn’t have found much of a voice anyway. Ever since the encounter with her mother, she’d been dry inside. Empty.

“Well. Here we are.”

They parked in front of a well-kept Victorian home in downtown Ballard. A hand-painted sign out front read: BAKER AND MONTGOMERY, ATTORNEYS AT LAW.

It took Tully a moment to get out of the car. By the time she did, the woman was giving her a soft, understanding smile.

“You don’t need to bring your suitcase.”

“I’d like to, thanks.” If there was one thing Tully understood, it was the importance of a packed bag.

The woman nodded and led the way up the grass-veined concrete walkway to the white front door. Inside the overly quaint space, Tully took a seat in the lobby, close to the empty receptionist’s desk. Cutesy drawings of big-eyed kids lined the ornately papered walls. At precisely four o’clock, a pudgy man with a balding head and horn-rimmed glasses came to get them.

“Hello, Tallulah. I’m Elmer Baker, your Grandmother Hart’s attorney.”

Tully followed him to a small upstairs room with two overstuffed chairs and an antique mahogany desk littered with yellow legal pads. In the corner, a standing fan buzzed and thumped and sent warm air spinning toward the door. The social worker took a seat by the window.

“Here. Here. Sit down, please,” he said, moving to his own chair behind the elegant desk.