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“I’m sorry.”

“She was a good mom.” My voice cracks. “She and Aunt Addy loved me.”

“I believe you.”

“They made cakes and pies. I helped after school. By the time I was ten, people were ordering my cinnamon rolls.”

Arthur leans his forearms on the table. “You bake?”

“Yes.”

A tiny smile touches his mouth. “You can stay.”

“Arthur,” Sean warns.

“What? That’s important information.”

For the first time in longer than I can remember, a laugh tries to escape me. It comes out as a broken little sound.

Arthur smiles, but the other men don’t laugh. They’re still waiting for the rest.

“Aunt Addy lived with us,” I continue. “She had problems because of drugs she used before I was born. She had anxiety and depression, but she was funny. Sometimes she stayed awake all night because she was afraid something bad would happen while we were sleeping.”

“What happened to her?” Sean asks.

“She took too many pills when I was ten.”

His expression tightens.

“She left me letters. Hundreds of them. She wrote down everything she wanted to tell me because sometimes talking was hard for her. I didn’t find them until Mae died.”

I touch the backpack I had moved beside my feet.

Every letter I have left is inside it.

“After Mae died, the school found out I was living alone. They called Social Services, and I was put in a foster home.”

“Was it a bad home?” Will asks.

“Too many girls. Not enough adults. Nobody cared where we went as long as we came back before someone checked the beds.”

“Did someone hurt you there?” Sean asks.

“No. Not exactly.”

His eyes narrow.

“One of the girls introduced me to a guy named Greg. He said he was a college student.”

“How old was he?”

“Twenty-one, maybe twenty-two.”

“And you were sixteen?” Taylor asks.

“He was nice at first. He brought me food. He said I was beautiful.”

I hate remembering how badly I wanted to believe him.