My son left his eight-year-old adopted daughter burning with a 104-degree fever so he could take his biological son on a luxury cruise. They thought no one would know. Until my phone rang at 2:00 a.m.

I swung into the manicured entrance of Highland Estates, my tires screeching in the suffocating summer humidity. I pulled up to their two-story brick colonial. The house was entirely dark, save for the faint glow of a porch light that illuminated the absolute stillness of a home abandoned by its guardians.

I killed the engine and grabbed the spare key Julian had given me years ago. I jammed it into the lock, throwing my weight against the heavy oak door. As I stepped into the foyer, the oppressive, stifling heat of the house hit me like a physical blow, and the silence from my phone told me Maya had stopped answering.

The air inside the house was sweltering, heavy, and dead. They had turned off the central air conditioning to save a few dollars while they vacationed in luxury. I stumbled through the dark, slapping the wall until I found the light switch.