Forty Thousand Dollars Demanded to Bring Our Lost Daughter Home
“Patrick, look at me,” Clara said, her Southern drawl dropping to a quiet, steady whisper.
“You did this on purpose,” Patrick screamed, his voice cracking. “You wanted her to be dead. You always wanted her to be dead.”
“Patrick, child,” Clara said, her voice remaining firm. “We had to look at the photo under the light. We had to be sure.”
“No,” he yelled, his face turning a deep, angry red. “Both of you. You just want to give up. You want to pretend she never existed.”
I reached out to grab his hand, pausing to swallow the dryness in my throat. My left temple pulsed with a dull, steady ache, and I rubbed it with my thumb.
“Patrick, listen to me,” I said, speaking in slow, deliberate sentences. “The girl in the photo does not have the crescent mark on her neck. It is not Lily.”
“It is her,” Patrick sobbed, his breath coming in those rapid, breathless gasps that always came when his chest grew too tight. “She is just older. People change when they grow up. You don’t know what she looks like now.”
