Forty Thousand Dollars Demanded to Bring Our Lost Daughter Home
I helped Patrick up from the dry dirt of the sunflower garden, his small frame leaning heavily against my shoulder as we walked toward the farmhouse. He did not say anything, but his thumb kept rubbing the silver casing of Lily’s pocket watch, his small hand buried deep in his pocket.
My mother met us at the kitchen door, her eyes taking in the dirt on his knees and the vacant look in his face before she led him down the hallway toward his room. The house was quiet save for the heavy, rhythmic thrum of the window air conditioner in the living room, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards under my boots.
I did not go inside immediately; instead, I sat down on the top step of the porch, looking out at the road where the dust from George’s truck was still settling in the weeds. On the wooden bench next to the door, right beside the basket where we kept the clean rags, sat the galvanized bucket Vince had brought over yesterday morning.
