Leni heard the squeaking chair again. “And here’s a falsified marriage license. You married a man name Chad Grant. With these two documents, you’ll be able to go to the DMV and get a license and a new Social Security card. I have a birth certificate for Leni, too. She’ll be your daughter, Susan Grant. You two will rent a house not far from here. We will tell everyone you are a relative, or our housekeeper. Something. Anything to keep you safe,” Grandpa said, his voice rough with emotion.

“How did you get these?”

“I’m a lawyer. I know people. I paid a client of mine, a man of … flexible morals.”

“That’s not who you are,” Mama said quietly.

There was a pause, then: “We are all of us changed,” Grandpa said. “We’ve learned the hard way, haven’t we? By making mistakes. We should have listened to you when you were sixteen.”

“And I should have listened to you.”

The doorbell rang.

The sound was so unexpected at this time of night, that Leni felt a clutch of fear. She heard the sound of footsteps, then the rustle of wooden blinds.

“Police,” she heard her grandpa say.

Mama hurried out of the living room and saw Leni.

“Go upstairs,” Grandpa said, following Mama out of the living room.

Mama took Leni’s hand and led her up the stairs. “This way,” Mama said. “Quiet.”

They hurried up the stairs and tiptoed down the unlit hallway into the master bedroom—a huge room with mullioned windows and olive green carpet. A four-poster bed was dressed in lace that matched the carpet precisely.

Mama led Leni to a heating vent in the floor. With care, she pulled the vent out and set it aside.

Mama knelt down, motioned for Leni to scoot beside her. “I used to eavesdrop on the nuns when they came to expel me.”

Leni heard footsteps echo through the metal vent slats.

Men’s voices.

“Detectives Archer Madison and Keller Watt. Seattle PD.”

Grandpa: “Is there something amiss in the neighborhood, Officers, at this late hour?”

“We’re here [something they couldn’t hear] behalf of Alaska state troopers. [Words that blended together] your daughter, Cora Allbright … [something] last seen her … Sorry to say … presumed dead.”

Leni heard her grandma cry out.

“Here, ma’am, let us help you sit.”

A pause. Long. Then a scuffling sound, a briefcase being opened, papers withdrawn. “The pickup truck found … cabin full of blood, broken window, obvious crime scene but the evidence was destroyed by animals … tests inconclusive … X-rays that showed a broken arm … broken nose. Search being conducted, but … this time of year … weather. God knows what we’ll find when the snow melts … keep you informed…”

“He killed them,” Grandpa said. These words were loud, angry. “Son of a bitch.”

“Many reports … his violence.”

Leni turned to her mama. “So we got away with it?”