She pulled the door shut behind her and sat on the corner of the little table.
I hated that I said “okay.”
“Maureen. You can stay with me. My couch pulls out. No questions.”
“I can’t leave the house.”
“Why not?”
“Because what if my daughter comes back and I’m not there?”
My co-worker didn’t argue with me.
She just squeezed my wrist and said, “The offer doesn’t expire.”
“You can stay with me.”
I almost told her about the account, about the strange way Kevin had answered with no pause at all.
I almost told her I’d been thinking of calling my dad’s old attorney, Harold, who’d retired somewhere in Arizona years ago.
Instead, I thanked her and returned to my desk.
I almost told her about the account.
***
That night I stood in Sarah’s doorway, staring at the shape of her bed in the dark.
“I’ll find you, baby,” I whispered. “I promise I’ll find you.”
I didn’t know if I was lying. I didn’t know if the woman making that promise still had anything left to keep her vow.
I only knew the calendar on the fridge kept turning, and every square was another day my daughter hadn’t come home.
I stood in Sarah’s doorway.
***
A year passed the way water passes through a cracked bowl. Slowly, all at once, then gone.
I still called Sarah’s number every Sunday night. It rang once and died.
Kevin grew more at ease in the house, the way a cat gets comfortable in a chair it’s decided to own. He checked my phone at dinner and mentioned the mortgage every time I flinched.
