Her pink backpack sat by the slide, tipped over. One strap was twisted, and her favorite red mitten lay in the wood chips, bright as a flare. I pressed it to my face and tasted dirt and soap and her.
A cop crouched beside the backpack. “Any custody issues? Anyone who might take her?”
“She’s four,” I snapped. “Her biggest problem is nap time.”
The detective lowered his voice.
There were no cameras then, no clean footage to replay. Dogs searched the tree line; volunteers combed the neighborhood. Every siren made my heart jump, and every quiet hour made it sink.
Detectives sat at our dining table and asked questions that felt like knives.
“Anyone close to the family?” one said, pen poised.
Frank kept his hands clasped, knuckles white. “I dropped her off. She was smiling.”
The detective lowered his voice. “Sometimes it’s someone you know.”
Frank flinched, quick as a blink, but I saw it.
After they left, I said, “What was that?”
Frank stared at the floor. “Because I failed her. That’s all.”
“You’re so strong.”
