Chapter 8

Six months after the incident, Margot Voss boarded a plane at 8:15 a.m. on a Tuesday and flew to Denver.

She didn't go alone. April Chen, now a law student at a university on the East Coast, had flown out to meet her. Hilda, ever present, had insisted on coming too, saying she hadn't seen Colorado in twenty years and the altitude did wonders for her sinuses. The three women landed at Denver International at 10:40 a.m. local time, collected a rental sedan, and drove through the foothills toward a building on the western edge of the city.

The shelter was a converted motel, its facade painted a warm butter yellow. A sign over the door read ABIGAIL HOUSE. Inside, it was clean and bright, with a reception desk, a playroom visible through a glass partition, and the smell of fresh coffee.

Margot paused at the threshold, looking at the sign. "Abigail House," she read aloud. "I didn't choose that name."

"It was named by the first residents," the director said, coming forward to greet them. She was a tired-faced woman in her fifties, with kind eyes and efficient hands. "They chose it after the founder of the original shelter, a woman named Abigail who ran it out of her basement for fifteen years. When we had the money to build this place, we kept the name."

This shelter — the one Serena Vance's contributions had helped build — was not new. It had been operating for decades in various forms. The money from the Voss Foundation had funded a new wing, a new roof, a new set of windows for the children's rooms.

Margot walked through the halls, her flat shoes making no sound on the worn carpet. She stopped at the doorway to the playroom, watching a young woman with a baby in her arms bounce gently by the window.

"These women," Margot said, half to herself, "they've all been through something."

"We all have," the director said softly.

In the west wing, a plaque hung on the wall near the common room door: