Forty Thousand Dollars Demanded to Bring Our Lost Daughter Home
Patrick looked down at the floor, his fingers tightening around the silver watch.
“He lied about Lily,” Patrick said.
“He knew she was not there.”
“He knew,” I said.
“And he used our hope to try and take what your grandparents worked fifty years to save.”
Patrick stood up from the stairs, his movements slow and heavy for a twelve-year-old boy.
He walked over to the kitchen table and reached into his front pocket, pulling out the Polaroid photograph.
The picture of the girl in the yellow dress looked small on the clean wood of the table.
“I do not want to look at this anymore,” Patrick said, his voice barely louder than a whisper.
He pushed the photo toward me, his hand steady.
“Let it burn, Dad,” he said.
I looked at my mother, who nodded slowly from the sink, her face lit by the yellow light of the small stove lamp.
I picked up the photo, the glossy paper cold against my fingers.
“Come on out to the porch,” I said to Patrick.
