Mallory had known.
But even then, I couldn’t accept that she had intentionally disappeared.
A teenager might run away for one night.
Maybe two.
She wouldn’t leave her mother believing for months that she was lying at the bottom of a lake.
At least, that was what I kept telling myself.
An entire year went by.
Then, on the night before the anniversary of Mallory’s disappearance, someone knocked on my door.
It was almost eleven.
When I opened it, Kendra was standing there.
She looked older than I remembered. Exhausted.
Her hands were trembling.
“Kendra?”
She said nothing.
Instead, she reached into her jacket and took out a phone with a cracked corner.
I recognized the lavender case instantly.
My knees almost buckled.
“That’s Mallory’s.”
Kendra began to cry.
“Please don’t yell.”
I snatched the phone from her.
“Where is my daughter?”
“She’s alive.”
