Chapter 3: The House With No Answer
I didn't open the envelope again. I folded it in half and slid it into the inside pocket of my suit jacket and kept my hand there, like that would keep it from being real.
"Where's your house?" I asked her.
She pointed past the SUV, to the small blue house on the other side of the driveway. Maybe forty feet away. Same cracked pavement, same dappled light through the trees. Close enough that I should have seen someone coming and going. Close enough that she had walked over to me.
I stood up. My knees popped. She slipped her hand into mine without me asking. Her palm was damp and hot.
We crossed the driveway together. The black SUV threw a long shadow over us as we passed it. The chrome grille flashed when the sun hit it. I kept her on the inside, away from the street.
Her house had a concrete porch with one step up and a white front door with a brass knob. A faded welcome mat, a plastic tricycle on its side. No car in the carport. Just an oil stain where one should have been.
I knocked first. Three times, hard enough that the door rattled in its frame.
No answer.
I knocked again and called out, "Hello? Anyone home?"
Silence. Not the silence of someone sleeping. The flat, empty silence of a house with the air off.
The girl tugged my hand. "Mom's car is gone," she said. She said it like she already knew.
I tried the knob. Locked. I leaned in and cupped my hand around my eyes to look through the front window. The blinds were half closed, slanted.
The living room was neat in a way that felt wrong. Couch, TV, a blanket folded over the arm. But on the far wall I could see into the bedroom doorway. The closet door was wide open. Empty hangers. A few wire hangers on the floor. The kind of mess you leave when you grab clothes fast and don't care what falls.
And on the bedroom floor, the outline in the carpet where a suitcase had sat for a long time. A clean rectangle in otherwise dusty carpet. The suitcase was gone.
My stomach dropped.
"Does your mom usually leave the door locked when she goes out?" I asked.
She nodded. "Yes."
"Did she say where she was going last night?"
She shook her head. Her pink bow had slipped a little to the side. I reached down and straightened it without thinking.
I tried the window. Locked. I wasn't going to break anything with her watching me. I stepped back and looked at the carport again, the empty driveway, the mailbox with its flag down.
"Has she packed a bag before?" I asked.
"I don't know," she whispered. "She was on the phone a lot."
The side gate to the neighbor's yard creaked and an older woman came out with a trash bag. She was in her sixties, gray hair pulled back, gardening gloves tucked in her back pocket. She stopped when she saw us.
"Oh, honey," she said to the girl. "You okay?"
I answered for her. "I'm looking for her mom. You seen her today?"
The woman set her trash bag down. "Left this morning. Early, before eight. I was getting my paper."
My hand tightened around the envelope in my pocket.
"Did she say anything?" I asked.
The neighbor glanced at the girl, then at me, then back. She lowered her voice a little. "She put two bags in her trunk. Big ones. Said she had to go stay with her sister overnight. Asked me to keep an eye out, said she might not be back till tomorrow." She frowned. "She seemed in a hurry. Didn't even bring the little one with her, which I thought was odd."
The girl looked up at me. Her eyes were getting wet again, but she wasn't crying. She was watching my face to see what I would do.
"Did she say which sister? Where?" I asked.
"No, dear. Just said overnight."
Overnight. The word landed hard. Midnight was tonight. Mom had signed the paper last night, taken the money, packed this morning, and left her daughter behind to be collected.
I looked back through the window at that empty closet. That wasn't a trip to a sister's. That was clearing out. That was not coming back before midnight and maybe not after.
I crouched again, eye level with her. Her white Mary Janes were dusty from the driveway.
"What's your name?" I asked quietly. Realized I hadn't asked.
"Mia," she whispered.
"Mia, I'm not going to leave you here alone, okay? There's nobody home. We're going to go back to my truck where it's safe and figure this out. Is that okay?"
She nodded fast and grabbed my hand with both of hers this time.
I stood and looked at the neighbor. "If her mom comes back, can you call me? I'm right there." I pointed at the SUV. "Black SUV."
"I will," she said. "You got her?"
"I got her," I said.
I walked Mia back across the driveway. Every step away from that empty house felt like the right call and also like I was stepping into something I couldn't put down. I opened the passenger door of the SUV. The leather was hot from the sun.
I lifted her up onto the seat. She was light. Her pink dress ruffled as she settled. I buckled her in with the regular belt, pulling it snug across her lap. She held the edge of the seat with both hands.
May you like
I shut the door, went around to the driver's side, and got in. I didn't start the engine. I just sat there with my hands on the wheel, the envelope pressing against my chest from the inside pocket, the house with no answer in the rearview mirror, and a little girl in my passenger seat who had nowhere else to go before midnight.
I looked at the clock on the dash. Afternoon light was still bright, but it was already slipping.
