After Grant died, Audrey tried to protect her adopted daughter from the truth about his affair.

My blood ran cold.

I stared at the email, my hands trembling.

Who could have sent this?

Margaret? No. If she knew, she would have burst through the door already.

Lena?

I thought about the way she looked at me in the office. The way she lied to Margaret.

Could she have sent this?

The email had no name. No signature. Just an anonymous address.

I looked at the time stamp. Sent five minutes ago.

Right after they left.

It had to be Lena.

I sat down at the kitchen table, thinking.

If I met her, what would she want? Money? Protection?

Or was it a trap? A way to get me out of the house so Margaret could break in and steal the evidence?

I looked down the hallway at Poppy's room. I could hear her singing to herself as she colored.

I couldn't leave her alone.

But I also couldn't ignore this. If Lena really did know about the box, about the evidence, then she could destroy everything with one phone call to Margaret.

I picked up my phone and called my best friend, Sarah.

She answered on the first ring.

"Hey! How are you guys doing?"

"Sarah," I said, my voice tight. "I need a favor. Can you come over? Watch Poppy for a few hours tonight?"

"Of course," she said, immediately sensing something was wrong. "Is everything okay?"

"Not really," I said. "I'll explain later. But I need to go out. And I don't want to take Poppy with me."

"I'll be there in twenty minutes," she said. "No questions. Just... be careful, okay?"

"Thanks, Sarah."

I hung up.

I walked to the office and unlocked the door. The metal box was still under the desk, right where I left it.

I pulled it out and opened it. The files were all there. Bank statements. Emails. Everything Grant had collected.

I had to hide them somewhere better. Somewhere Margaret would never think to look.

I thought for a moment. Then I went to Poppy's room.

She looked up when I came in.

"Mommy?"

"Hey, baby," I said. "Can I borrow something?"

I went to her closet and pulled out her old dollhouse—the big wooden one Grant had built for her last Christmas. She didn't play with it much anymore. It was too babyish, she said.

I opened the back of the dollhouse where the batteries went. There was a small compartment, just big enough for the files.

I folded the papers carefully and tucked them inside. Then I put the back panel on and pushed the dollhouse back into the corner of her closet, covering it with a pile of old stuffed animals.