After that, Daniel and I didn’t really live. We existed. We answered calls, met detectives, followed bad leads, and learned how many ways hope can fail in one week.
We never touched Caroline’s bedroom.
Her bed stayed made.
Every birthday, I bought a card, wrote in it, and hid it in a box.
Her plastic tiara stayed on the dresser.
Every birthday, I bought a card, wrote in it, and hid it in a box.
I did that for fifteen years.
Now, so long after I’d given up hope, the folded page inside the backpack gave me an address in a town called Harbor Ridge and a time: six o’clock.
It asked me to come alone if I wanted the rest of the truth.
Tucked behind it was one copied bank record with Daniel’s name on it.
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