He crouched down to my level, slow, the way you’d move around a wounded animal.
“Three hours ago,” he said quietly, “your ex pulled in, used the bathroom, bought a pack of cigarettes, and drove off. Left this little girl standing by the pumps alone. We’ve been keeping her safe and trying to find you ever since. But there’s something else you need to see. She left a note in your daughter’s pocket, and it says she’s not coming back.”
I stopped breathing.
The old man reached into the inside pocket of his vest. His hands were huge, scarred, the knuckles swollen from a lifetime of work or fighting or both.
He pulled out a folded piece of paper. Gas station receipt paper. The kind that curls.
I didn’t take it right away. I just stared at it like it might bite me.
“Read it when you’ve got your feet under you,” he said. “Not in front of her.”
But I couldn’t wait. My hands shook so bad I tore the corner unfolding it.
Sarah’s handwriting. I’d recognize it anywhere. I used to find her grocery lists in my coat pockets for months after she left.
Whoever finds her. Her name is Lily. Her dad is Mark Reyes. I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry. Tell her I love her.
