The community college parking lot.
The diner where Sarah worked weekends.
The senior center.
Nothing.
The next morning, I called everyone again.
Friends.
Teachers.
Coworkers.
Appropriate local agencies.
No information.
Sarah had turned off location sharing.
Her phone stopped connecting entirely two days later.
I reported her missing.
Because she was eighteen, police explained that if she left voluntarily, they could not force her home.
I understood.
I did not want force.
I wanted to know she was alive.
Kevin refused to speak to officers beyond saying,
“She chose to leave.”
That phrase became his shield.
She chose.
He said it constantly.
“She chose to leave.”
“She chose not to call.”
“She chose to punish you.”
I hated him for it.
I told him that.
One night, three weeks after Sarah disappeared, I screamed,
“You drove her away.”
Kevin stood in the living room.
Then said quietly,
“If you hate me so much, leave.”
I looked at him.
“Maybe I should.”
He nodded toward the front door.
“Go ahead.”
Then he added,
“But remember whose house this is.”
I froze.
He continued.
“Your salary barely covers groceries.”
“You have nowhere to go.”
The cruelty was calm.
That made it worse.
And the terrible part was that he was partly right.
I had three thousand dollars in savings.
No property.
No family nearby.
My parents were dead.
