She replied with a laughing face and wrote, “Maybe.”
That became the final message I ever received from her.
The next morning, my first call went directly to voicemail.
I didn’t panic.
They were staying near a lake. The signal was unreliable. Teenagers forgot to charge their phones.
By noon, I had sent two messages.
By two, I had sent four.
At 3:17 p.m., Mallory’s teacher called me.
The instant I heard his voice, my stomach dropped.
“Mrs. Hale?”
“Yes?”
“There’s been a situation with Mallory.”
I rose so quickly that my chair scraped against the kitchen floor.
“What situation?”
He paused.
“We can’t find her.”
I remember clutching the edge of the table.
“What do you mean you can’t find her?”
He told me Mallory had been at the beach with several students that morning. Her classmate, Kendra, said Mallory complained of a headache and returned toward their tent.
