Not even a “she finally answered” from Caroline. Not even Charlotte saying she heard something. Just silence… so complete it feels less like a decision and more like someone took the choice away.
It’s just an email from the feed supplier. A text from Boone asking if I’ve signed the bank paperwork. A reminder about the school fundraiser.
I stare at the screen for a long beat, pulse still racing, then set it down because it burned me.
The crash after the hope is the worst part.
You think you’ve hit the bottom, then your brain gives you one bright, stupid second of possibility and rips it away again. It’s being hauled to the surface just to be shoved back under.
The phone buzzes again.
I ignore it.
If it’s important, they’ll call twice. If it’s Faith… she won’t.
That thought should be acceptance.
Instead, it’s drowning.
I pick up my pen and try to write something, anything, to prove I’m still functional. The ink makes a jagged line. My hand isn’t steady.
I clench my fist, flex my fingers, then force them to unclasp.
You’re not falling apart, I tell myself.You’re just tired.
But tired doesn’t explain the way my chest aches when I pass the coat closet and see the scarf Faith borrowed hanging there because no one has moved it. Tired doesn’t explain the way my stomach turns when Lila asks, for the hundredth time, “Is Faith coming for dinner?” and I have to swallow down the sharp, ugly truth before I answer with something gentle.
Tired doesn’t explain the anger that keeps flashing hot and sudden in my gut, a flare in the dark.
Anger at Evan.
Anger at William Ross.
Anger at the police officer who told us to wait because “she’s an adult.”
Anger at myself for not seeing it sooner, not acting faster, not tearing apart the town stone by stone until I found her.
And then the other thing, worse than anger, slides in right behind it.
Fear.
What if she’s hurting?
What if she’s scared and alone and thinks we stopped looking?
What if she listened to my voicemail and still couldn’t call back?
What if she never even got to hear it?
I pick up my phone again before I can stop myself and open my last outgoing call list.
I dial.
Voicemail.
Again.
Every time it happens, it hits different.
