“Mom.”
She did not turn. “You should eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Neither was she. The chicken on the stove had gone dry under foil.
He stepped closer. “Why did you never tell me?”
Her shoulders tightened. “Tell you what?”
“That you knew Ellie didn’t run away.”
She shut her eyes.
“I didn’t know,” she said. “Not for certain.”
“That’s not an answer.”
She gripped the edge of the sink until her knuckles blanched. “Your grandfather was a hard man.”
“Hard men don’t keep their missing granddaughter’s underwear under a mattress.”
“Lower your voice.”
“No.”
At that, she turned. Fear flashed across her face so quickly and so deeply that it silenced him more than any rebuke could have.
“Mom,” he said, softer now. “He’s dead.”
For a moment it seemed she hadn’t heard him. Then, very slowly, she looked toward the window, toward the dark beyond it, like some part of her still believed Arnold Walker might appear on the porch if anyone spoke too plainly.
