The stapler jammed on the last pocket folder of the kindergarten registration queue. It was five minutes before five o’clock on a Tuesday in late August, and the high school administration office smelled of fresh floor wax and dry paper.
Clara, my coworker, looked up from her computer terminal and stacked her folders into a neat pile. “Are you still waiting on that health form from the Miller family?”
“I called them twice,” I said, twisting the silver band of my wedding ring around my finger.
My phone sat on the desk next to the keyboard, its screen completely dark. Lorraine, my mother-in-law, had not sent her hourly text update since half past eleven that morning.
“Your mother-in-law is probably just busy with Mia at the park,” Clara said, reaching for her knit cardigan on the back of her chair. “Three-year-olds do not leave a lot of time for typing.”
“Lorraine never forgets the three o’clock nap update,” I said.
I slid my phone into my purse and locked my desk drawer with the small brass key. The silence from the phone felt heavy, like a physical weight in the bottom of my bag.
“Have a good evening, Clara,” I said, adjusting the strap of my purse over my shoulder.
“See you tomorrow, Emily,” she said.
The drive to Elmwood took eighteen minutes. I pulled my sedan into the gravel driveway behind Lorraine’s large cream-colored Buick, which sat angled slightly toward the grass.
The split-level house looked entirely dark under the shadow of the maple trees. No toys lay on the grass, and the white plastic blinds in the living room windows were drawn tight against the late afternoon sun.
I stepped out of the car, the dry August heat pressing against my face. The gravel crunched under my flats as I walked toward the front concrete steps.
A small patch of red yarn caught my eye on the second step.
Mia’s rag doll, Rosie, lay on the concrete with her left arm pulled completely away from the torso. Polyester stuffing poked through the torn seam of the faded pink fabric, scattered across the gray stone.
