Forty Thousand Dollars Demanded to Bring Our Lost Daughter Home
Clustered thick in the old grease of the hinge was a bright, powdery smear of yellow sunflower pollen. It was the exact shade of the stain I had seen on the bumper of Vince’s red truck on Sunday morning, the yellow dust that had caught my eye but had not yet found a place in my mind.
I rubbed my left temple with my free hand, the shears resting heavy across my knees. The pollen was dry, caked into the grease in a way that only happened when blades were forced through thick, sap-filled stems in a hurry.
Vince had not just helped us clear the ruins of the garden yesterday morning to be kind. He had been in our garden on Friday night in the dark, using these very shears to cut down our annual morning ritual so we would find his white box on the last standing stalk.
I stood up, holding the shears by the cold iron handles, and walked into the kitchen.
