Her pink backpack lay beside the slide, tipped onto its side. One strap twisted awkwardly, and her favorite red mitten rested in the wood chips, bright as a warning flare. I pressed it to my face and tasted dirt, soap, and her.
An officer knelt near the backpack. “Any custody issues? Anyone who might take her?” he asked. “She’s four,” I snapped. “Her biggest problem is nap time.”
There were no cameras back then, no clear footage to rewind. Dogs traced the edge of the trees; volunteers searched block after block. Every passing siren jolted my heart, and every silent hour dragged it down.
Detectives sat at our dining table and asked questions that cut deep. “Anyone close to the family?” one asked, pen ready. Frank kept his hands clasped tight, knuckles drained of color. “I dropped her off,” he murmured. “She was smiling.”
The detective lowered his tone. “Sometimes it’s someone you know.” Frank flinched—barely—but I noticed. After they left, I asked, “What was that?” Frank stared at the floor. “Because I failed her,” he said. “That’s all.”
