“Then she is learning a very hard lesson about the real world,” Kevin said, his voice dropping an octave. “We are not going to spend our retirement fund searching for a girl who does not want to be found.”
He did not look up from his bills again. I stood by the door for three minutes, the keys cold in my hand, before I put them back on the hook.
At eleven the next morning, the law office break room smelled of burnt toast.
Lola sat at her desk in the cubicle next to mine, her fingers flying across her keyboard. She was forty-eight, her silver earrings clicking together every time she tilted her head. She tapped her ballpoint pen rhythmically against her desk as she stared at the screen.
“Nothing on Facebook,” Lola said, her voice low so the attorneys down the hall would not hear. “Her profile is gone.”
“People do not just delete their accounts,” I said, leaning over her shoulder.
“They do if they do not want to be tracked,” Lola said. “But her Instagram is gone too. The whole thing. It says page not found
