“Staff Sergeant?” the driver asked, reaching for my green military seabag as it slid down the metal ramp.
“That is me,” I said, but my attention was already locked on my phone screen.
There were three missed calls from an eight-fifty-four area code, a local Pensacola exchange I did not recognize.
I tried to call my father back twice, but the line went straight to his generic voicemail greeting. He had stopped answering my questions entirely, ignoring every query about the bungalow.
I stared at the blank screen of my phone, wondering why my father’s messages had suddenly turned so cold.
The taxi driver drove out of the airport grounds, heading south toward the bay. The vinyl seat of the old sedan was hot against my uniform trousers. I tried my father’s number again, listening to the hollow ring before the line cut to the automated message. I hung up without leaving another voicemail. It was the fourth time in three hours he had ignored my call
The driver caught my eye in the rearview mirror. “Traffic is backing up on the bridge,” he said, gesturing toward the line of brake lights ahead.
“Take the bypass,” I said. “I have a stop to make first.”
We pulled into the gravel lot of Miller’s Hardware fifteen minutes later. Sarah’s blue Ford F-150 was parked near the loading dock, the bed loaded with rolls of silt fencing. She was tying down a yellow strap when she saw the taxi.
She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand as I got out. “Maria,” she said, stepping forward to pull me into a quick, dusty hug. “I did not expect you back until tomorrow.”
“The flight out of California got bumped up,” I said. “Have you seen my dad?”
Sarah let go of the strap and looked down at her work boots. “Not since Friday. But I saw a big yellow moving van backed up to your driveway on Maggie Street last Tuesday.”
My hand went to my collar, adjusting the stiff fabric. “A moving van? I did not order any work done inside.”
