And right at the edge of the paper, drawn with painstaking care, was a mailbox with the numbers 4-0-7 on it. I had to grab the edge of the counter to steady myself. Sarah, my daughter, currently lived at 407 Birch Lane, two counties over.

It was a halfway house she had recently moved into after her last stint in county jail. I knew the address from a probation officer who had called me weeks ago, leaving a voicemail I quickly deleted. I had never spoken that address out loud.

I had never driven Lily past it. There was absolutely no way my six-year-old granddaughter could know what that house looked like, let alone the exact house number. “Lily, sweetie,” I managed to say, my voice trembling. “Where did you see this house?” “Mama showed it to me,” she said matter-of-factly, taking a bite of a strawberry.

“She said it’s where she lives now.” I felt nauseous. I waited in pure agony for nightfall. As soon as I was sure Lily was fast asleep, I crept into her bedroom and grabbed her school backpack. I took it out to the living room, turned on the single reading lamp, and dumped the contents onto the rug.

Folders, crayons, a half-eaten granola bar, and a few library books spilled out. I flipped through the pages of a picture book about dinosaurs, and my breath caught. Tucked neatly between the pages was a crumpled envelope. It was postmarked from the neighboring county. Inside was a brightly colored birthday card—even though Lily’s birthday wasn’t for another four months.

I opened it. The handwriting was erratic, frantic, but undeniably Sarah’s. “My sweet Lily-bird. Mommy loves you so much. I’m sorry I’ve been away in ‘heaven’ for so long, but I’m better now.

I loved seeing you by the fence at recess. Keep our secret from Grandpa just a little longer.

I’m coming to get you soon. We’re going to take a long ride in the yellow car.” Panic seized my chest. Sarah had been going to Lily’s elementary school. She had been talking to her through the playground fence during recess. The teachers hadn’t noticed.

The security hadn’t caught her. My drug-addicted daughter, who had lost all custody rights, was planning to abduct my granddaughter. I remembered the drawing on the kitchen counter. I ran back into the kitchen, turned on the overhead light, and stared at the construction paper.

Earlier, I had been so shocked by the address and the house that I hadn’t looked closely at the rest of the picture. Right next to the bright yellow car, Lily had drawn two stick figures. One was clearly meant to be a woman, with long brown hair like Sarah’s.

But the figure standing next to her wasn’t a child. It was a tall man. Lily had grabbed a black crayon and pressed so hard the paper was almost torn, coloring his face entirely black.