When the police came, I gave them everything.
Her height.
Her clothes.
The bag.
The green tank top.
The brass keychain.
I repeated the details until they sounded like facts about somebody else’s child.
For months, I jumped whenever the phone rang.
For years, I studied girls in grocery stores.
A certain walk could stop me.
A laugh could make my hands shake.
Dark hair seen from behind could ruin an entire afternoon.
I kept her toothbrush in the cup for nine years.
At first, removing it felt like admitting something.
Later, leaving it there felt ridiculous.
I left it anyway.
I renewed her library card twice.
The woman at the desk looked confused the second time.
« Is she still using it? »
« She might. »
That was all I said.
A detective named Pruitt called every few months until he retired, and after that, a man in Nevada emailed me a photograph of a girl’s back and asked for $400.
