“You don’t have a granddaughter,” I said, each word deliberate and final. “You have no daughter. You have thirty days to clear your belongings from the Oakridge house before the sheriff’s department removes them to a public storage unit. If any of you step past these gates or attempt to approach Grace or me again, Rebecca Lawson will file an immediate emergency restraining order with the district court.”
“Claire, you can’t do this to your own blood!” Arthur shouted, banging against the metal gate bars. “You’ll burn in hell for this!”
I pressed the button, cutting the feed. The screen went dark.
I walked back to the bassinet, picked up Grace, and held her close against my shoulder. Outside, the distant sound of tires screeching echoed up the canyon as my family finally realized that the door they had slammed shut was locked forever.
***
