The police came within minutes. I gave them Emily’s photo, sweater color, and every street they might have taken.
A deputy questioned Nora while she shook under a blanket.
“Did Emily run?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did someone stop?”
Her eyes flicked down.
“Did someone stop?”
By midnight, neighbors searched with flashlights. I walked until my shoes filled with water.
At the police station, my brother, Ronald, grabbed my arm.
“Ross, that girl knows something.”
“She’s 12.”
“That girl came back without Emily.”
“Her name is Nora.”
“Your real daughter is missing. Stay away from this girl. I’m telling you, she’s trouble.”
“Ross, that girl knows something.”
I stepped closer. “Don’t ever say that to me again.”
By morning, Emily was gone. Grant and Carla joined the search, cried beside me for the local news, and told police they had been home all night.
So the town chose Nora to blame.
***
At school, kids moved away from Nora like blame could rub off. Women stopped talking when she passed.
Then someone painted “LIAR” across our mailbox.
“Don’t ever say that to me again.”
Nora saw it before I did.
“I can leave,” she said, her backpack still on.
I picked up the hose. “No, you can’t.”
“They think I did something.”
I crouched until she looked at me. “Whatever happened that night, you’re 12. This town doesn’t get to throw you away because it’s angry. I know you loved her too.”
“They think I did something.”
Her mouth shook. “What if you start believing them?”
I sprayed the red paint until it ran down the post. “Then remind me who raised me better.”
***
Months later, Nora’s grandmother moved into care. The dementia had worsened. She’d left the stove on twice and forgotten her way home from the mailbox.
A caseworker came with a folder.
“Nora has no living parents,” she said. “Her grandmother can’t continue as guardian.”
“What if you start believing them?”
Nora sat on the stairs, gripping her backpack.
“What happens to her?” I asked.
“We’ll place her.”
“Place her where?”
“We’re looking at options.”
“She has one.”
The caseworker looked toward the stairs. “Mr. Ross, people may misunderstand.”
“What happens to her?”
“They already do.”
“You’re grieving Emily.”
