Detective Alvarez opened a missing-person file, though he warned me that Sarah’s age limited what the police could do.
“If she contacts you, even briefly, let me know,” he said. “I will keep the report active.”
By the third week, her phone had been disconnected.
The silence that followed did not feel empty. It felt heavy, as though it had settled into every room and taken up space.
One evening, I forced myself to ask Kevin about the inheritance my father had left Sarah for college.
“The money is safe,” he replied without hesitation. “I moved it into a certificate of deposit so she could not waste it.”
“You moved it without telling me?”
“I am the trustee. Protecting it is my responsibility.”
The next morning, he showed me a printed statement. The balance looked right, and the logo at the top seemed familiar. I wanted to believe the paper because the alternative was too frightening.
So I said, “All right.”
That small surrender would haunt me almost as much as Sarah’s unfinished voicemail.
