She was only four years old.

Lily slept for eleven hours.

Ryan checked on her twice in the night.

Both times she was curled on her side on the fold-out bed he'd set up in Mia's room, Mia's spare stuffed rabbit tucked under her arm — Mia had placed it there herself before going to sleep, with the gravity of someone making an important donation.

Sandra slept in the bedroom.

Ryan slept on the couch.

Neither of them said goodnight.

In the morning, Ryan was in the kitchen making oatmeal when he heard small feet on the floor behind him.

He turned around.

Lily was standing in the kitchen doorway in the oversized t-shirt Mia had lent her.

Her hair was still tangled.

Her eyes moved around the kitchen slowly — the counters, the window, the table — and then stopped on the vent.

The cover was still off.

The gap was still open.

Ryan set down the spoon and walked to the vent.

He picked up the cover and fitted it back into place.

He didn't make a production of it.

He just put it back and turned around.

Lily was watching him.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

A pause.

Then a small nod.

"Oatmeal okay?"

Another nod.

He pulled out a chair and she climbed into it.

He set a bowl in front of her and she ate with the focused, economical attention of a child who had learned not to leave food unfinished.

Ryan sat across from her with his coffee and didn't push.

After a few minutes, without looking up from her bowl, Lily said: "She wasn't always mean."

Ryan kept his voice even.

"No?"

"Sometimes she gave me real food.

Not just bread." A pause.

"But then she stopped."

"When did she stop?"

Lily thought about it.

"When it got cold."

Ryan looked at his hands around his coffee mug.

October.

It had gotten cold in September.

"Lily," he said carefully.

"Do you know where your mom is?"

The spoon stopped moving.

"She said she was coming back," Lily said.

"She said it would only be a little while."

Ryan nodded slowly.

He didn't say anything to that.

"Is she coming back?" Lily asked.

She was still looking at her oatmeal.

"I don't know yet," Ryan said.

"But I'm going to find out.

Okay?

That's a promise."

Lily looked up at him then — directly, for the first time.

The look was not childlike.

It was the look of someone who had been promised things before and was deciding, very carefully, whether this one was different.

Ryan held her gaze and didn't look away.

She went back to her oatmeal.

Tom arrived at eight-thirty.

He had made calls from the car.

He came in, poured himself coffee without asking, and sat at the kitchen table across from Ryan while Lily finished eating.

When Lily was done, Mia appeared from the hallway — she had been waiting, Ryan realized, listening for the right moment — and took Lily by the hand.

"Come see my room," Mia said.

"I have a lot of things."

Lily went with her.

Ryan and Tom looked at each other across the table.

"Debra," Tom said.

"She's in a treatment facility in the next county.

Has been since September.

Voluntarily admitted.

She's been trying to get clean."

Ryan exhaled slowly.

"She doesn't know where Lily is," Tom continued.

"She's been calling Sandra since August and Sandra stopped answering in September."

"Sandra stopped answering when it got cold," Ryan said.

Tom looked at him.

"Lily told me," Ryan said.

"Sandra stopped giving her proper food when it got cold."

Tom set his coffee down.

He was quiet for a moment.

"I spoke to a contact at child services," he said.

"Off the record, for now.

There's a path here — a narrow one — where Lily goes to Debra when Debra completes treatment, with supervised transition and support services.

No foster placement.

No system involvement beyond what's already on file." He paused.

"But Sandra has to cooperate.

Full disclosure.

She has to give a statement, acknowledge what happened, and accept whatever conditions they set."

"And if she doesn't?"

"Then it becomes a formal investigation and Sandra loses any control over how this goes."

Ryan nodded.

He looked toward the hallway, where he could hear Mia's voice — high and cheerful — explaining something about her stuffed animals to a quieter voice that was answering now, slowly, in short careful sentences.

Lily was talking.

"There's one more thing," Tom said.

Ryan looked at him.

"Sandra's mother.

Evelyn." Tom turned his coffee mug in his hands.

"She didn't just know, Ryan.

I spoke to her this morning.

She knew in April.

She came to the house in April and saw Lily."

Ryan stared at him.

"She told Sandra to sort it out," Tom said.

"And then she didn't ask again."