I handed the clipboard back, my thumb catching on the metal clip. He took it and placed it on top of a stack of manila folders.
“Does she have a credit card?” Frank asked.
“Only the debit card for her savings account,” I said.
He made a small mark on the margin of the page. “We will check the activity on that, but do not expect much if she wanted to disappear.”
I stood up, the vinyl seat sticking to my skirt. I wanted him to tell me he would send a car to Oak Street, but he was already looking at the next file.
“We will call if something comes up,” Frank said.
By seven o’clock that evening, the kitchen table was covered in grocery circulars and utility bills.
Kevin sat in the armchair by the window, a stack of envelopes in his lap. He was fifty-four, his hair still perfectly neat from his day at the accounting firm. He rubbed his temples slowly, his fingers moving in small, rhythmic circles.
“The police will not do anything,” I said, setting a glass of water on the table.
