I pulled it out and smoothed it over my knee. It was a drawing. On the left side was a large, angry black figure labeled Kevin. On the right side was a tiny, stick-figure girl, crying in a dark, empty box.

At the bottom of the page, written in shaky, backward seven-year-old print, were the words that would ensure Kevin went to prison, and Claire would never see her daughter again.

He takes my blanket and turns off the heat when I ask for water. I have to be a ghost.

I folded the paper, slipped it into my pocket, and sat on the edge of the bed, watching my granddaughter breathe. The battle was just beginning, but as I looked at her peaceful, sleeping face, I knew one thing with absolute certainty: the ghosts were gone, and she was finally safe.