But there was one thing I never told the police.
Something I was too ashamed to even admit to myself.
A few days before Mallory left for the lake, she had asked me something strange.
We were having breakfast when she suddenly said, “Do you think it’s okay to lie to someone if you think the truth will hurt them?”
I froze.
“Why are you asking?”
She shrugged.
“Just wondering.”
“People sometimes hide things because they think they’re protecting someone.”
Mallory looked directly at me.
“That sounds like something people say when they don’t want to admit they lied.”
I should have told her the truth that day.
Instead, I changed the subject.
Because twelve years earlier, when Mallory was three, my husband and I had adopted her.
My husband died when she was nine, and afterward, I became even more frightened of telling her.
I kept her original documents inside a locked box in my bedroom closet.
