“Then go,” I said, my voice too thin, too quiet. “See how far you get.”
She did not look back as she picked up the bag and walked out the back door.
I stood by the sink and watched the mustard skin over under the ceiling light.
The bread on the cutting board began to curl at the edges, but I did not put the loaf away.
My hand remained on the edge of the counter, my finger still pressed against the spot where I had tapped my ring.
By eleven-thirty that night, the hum of the ancient window air conditioner in the dining room was the only sound left in the house.
The air in the living room was thick and sweet with the smell of the late summer phlox from the garden.
Arthur stood near the front window, adjusting the metal band of his watch with one thumb, pulling it tight against his wrist.
“Her phone is still going straight to voicemail,” he said.
“She does that when she wants to be left alone,” I said, though my fingers were tapping the wooden arm of the rocking chair.
“At eleven-thirty on a Sunday, Helen?”
“She is headstrong,” I said.
Arthur turned from the window, his watch band clicking as he let it snap back against his skin.
“I drove by Sarah’s block twice,” he said. “The house is dark and Sarah’s mother said she has not seen Gia since Friday afternoon.”
I stood up and walked to the hallway closet, looking at her yellow raincoat still hanging on its wooden peg.
“She took the cream bag,” I said.
“We need to call the station,” Arthur said.
He picked up the black landline receiver from the small table by the stairs and held it out toward me.
“You have to be the one to tell them,” he said.
