“No.”
She rubbed her palms together.
“I went inside to buy water.”
“When I came out, a man was standing near my car.”
“What man?”
“I didn’t know him.”
“He said my rear tire looked low.”
“He offered to help.”
“Did you let him?”
“No.”
“I got into the car.”
“Then?”
“I don’t remember.”
The room seemed colder.
“What do you mean?”
“My next clear memory is waking up in a motel room.”
I stared.
“Where?”
“Knoxville.”
“Tennessee?”
“Yes.”
“How long later?”
“Almost two days.”
I sat down.
“What?”
“My purse was gone.”
“My phone was gone.”
“My car was gone.”
“I had bruises on my arms.”
“My head hurt.”
“I couldn’t remember how I got there.”
“Why didn’t you call us?”
“I tried.”
She looked at me.
“I called home from the motel office.”
“Dad answered.”
My chest tightened.
“What did he say?”
Evelyn’s face changed.
“He told me never to call again.”
I stood.
“No.”
“I knew you wouldn’t believe that.”
“Our father would never say that.”
“I thought the same thing.”
“What exactly did he say?”
She closed her eyes.
“He said, ‘Evelyn, listen to me carefully. Do not come home. Do not
contact Rachel or your mother. If you care about them, disappear.’”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“He sounded terrified.”
“No.”
“Rachel.”
“No.”
I paced toward the window.
Our father had been strict.
Private.
Sometimes emotionally distant.
But he loved us.
He would never erase one daughter.
Evelyn continued.
“I asked what happened.”
“He said my car had been found.”
“He said someone was dead.”
“I started screaming.”
“He told me the police believed the body was mine.”
My hands went cold.
“And then?”
“He said if I came back, you could be next.”
I turned.
“What?”
“He said someone had made a mistake.”
“And whoever made it would protect themselves.”
I stared at her.
“Who?”
“He wouldn’t tell me.”
“Did you call again?”
“Yes.”
“The number he gave me didn’t connect.”
I frowned.
“What number?”
She recited it.
