But when she went to unlock the door, the key wouldn’t fit.

Her heart tightened in the half second before she consciously understood. The locks had been changed. She wasn’t welcome.

I stared down at the keys in my sister’s hand. My house key had purple nail polish painted across the top, so I could always differentiate it from the others. How many times had I used it without ever realizing how lucky I was to have a home to go to? How many times had I let myself in, never realizing what a privilege it was?

Her hand trembling, Emma rang the doorbell. Inside she could hear Drake barking, deep and hoarse. The blinds were all drawn tight, but it looked like every light in the house was blazing—blades of yellow cut through the slats.

Something rustled behind the door. She waited. Behind her, the reporters were yelling questions, drowning each other out so they generated a loud, indeterminate roar. Corcoran stood at the curb with his arms crossed over his chest, staring stoically out at the crowd.

Suddenly a voice came from behind the door. “You can’t stay here.” Mrs. Mercer’s voice was nasal and stuffy. It was obvious she’d been crying.

“Please, Mrs. Mercer, I just want to explain.” She didn’t want to plead her case here on the doorstep, with the press watching and taking pictures. She leaned toward the door, hoping to hide her face from their cameras. “Please just give me a chance to explain.”

The door jerked open without warning.

My heart wrenched at the sight of my mother standing in the light-filled entryway, her face blotchy with tears. A frenzied, wild expression contorted her features, grief and rage twisting together. She still wore her work clothes, gray tweed slacks and a pink shell top, but she was barefoot and disheveled. She stared at Emma like she barely recognized her.

“I want you gone,” she said shrilly, her eyes blazing.

“Mrs. Mercer, please . . .”

“You’re just like your mother,” hissed the older woman. Emma took an involuntary step back. “You’re both liars. You’re both insane. You don’t care who you hurt, as long as you get your way.”

“I’m not like Becky!” Emma gasped. A sense of desperation clawed at her chest. She had to make her grandmother understand. “I’m sorry I lied to you. I’m so sorry, but I had no choice!”

Mrs. Mercer gave a strangled sob, tears collecting at the corners of her eyes. “You had a choice, and you made it.”

A dark shape moved at the back of the hallway, like someone was around the corner listening. Emma craned her neck to see who it was. “Where’s Da— Where’s Mr. Mercer? Can I talk to him?”

Her grandmother shook her head violently. “No, you can’t. He doesn’t want to speak with you. Not after what you’ve done to us.”