Her voice climbed. Then footsteps, fast and frantic.
I got out of bed. The hallway felt cold. By the time I reached the front room, neighbors were at the door. Mr. Frank knelt in front of me.
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"Have you seen your sister, sweetheart?" he asked.
I shook my head.
"Did she talk to strangers?"
Then the police came.
Blue jackets, wet boots, radios crackling. Questions I didn't know how to answer.
"What was she wearing?"
"Where did she like to play?"
"Did she talk to strangers?"
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They found her ball.
Behind our house, a strip of woods ran along the property. People called it "the forest," like it was endless, but it was just trees and shadows. That night, flashlights bobbed through the trunks. Men shouted her name into the rain.
They found her ball.
That's the only clear fact I was ever given.
The search went on. Days, weeks. Time blurred. Everyone whispered. No one explained.
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I remember Grandma crying at the sink, whispering, "I'm so sorry," over and over.
"Dorothy, go to your room."
I asked my mother once, "When is Ella coming home?"
She was drying dishes. Her hands stopped.
"She's not," she said.
"Why?"
My father cut in.
"Enough," he snapped. "Dorothy, go to your room."
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My father rubbed his forehead.
Later, they sat me down in the living room. My father stared at the floor. My mother stared at her hands.
"The police found Ella," she said.
"Where?"
"In the forest," she whispered. "She's gone."
"Gone where?" I asked.
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