Joan slid a worn manila envelope from the second bag and set it on the table. Inside lay a bank statement with Derek’s name on it and a folded receipt from a pawn shop. “Brooke came to me crying last night,” Joan said quietly. “She told me she never wanted the clothes. Derek asked her to sell them and keep the quiet.” Derek’s jaw clenched. “Mom, stop,” he muttered.

I picked up the statement, and my eyes landed on a line of withdrawals, each one circled in red pen. Eleven of them, all from our joint savings, the account I had been filling for Piper’s arrival. Joan pointed to the last page. “Hannah, read the name at the bottom,” she said. I looked down, and my hands began to shake, because the name was not Brooke’s.