“Because, Elena,” Mr. Torres said, his voice dropping into a register that made the hairs on my arms stand up, “what your mother did wasn’t just a cruel family dispute. Leaving an eleven-year-old child locked outside in a torrential downpour for five hours, while consciously refusing to open the door, is criminal endangerment. It is willful neglect of a minor, and in the state of New York, it constitutes severe child abuse. We are not just dealing with a property dispute anymore. We are building a case that will dismantle them completely. Do exactly as I say.”
My heart hammered against my ribs as I hung up. I looked over at the sofa bed. Ana was still asleep, her pale face framed by tangled, damp braids. Even in her sleep, her shoulders were hitched high, her body curled into a tight, defensive ball.
