I couldn’t possibly have known that covering such a small amount would lead me to something my family had been missing for twenty-two years.
But to understand what happened, I need to tell you about that morning.
My name is Rachel Hale. I’m thirty-four years old, and I work as a cashier at Hollis Market in Millbrook, a small town where practically everyone knows everyone else’s business.
That Friday, my alarm rang at six.
I pressed snooze, then spent a few minutes staring at the water stain on my bedroom ceiling.
It vaguely resembled a rabbit.
I’d been promising myself to get the roof inspected for nearly two years, but every time I thought I might have enough money, another bill arrived.
Downstairs, I could hear my mother preparing breakfast.
The kettle whistled.
An old country song played softly on the radio.
