Ella, you get in here right now!”
Her voice grew sharper, rising with panic. Then I heard hurried footsteps—fast, uneven.
I couldn’t stay in bed anymore.
I got up, the hallway cold under my feet. By the time I reached the front room, neighbors had already gathered at the door. Mr. Frank knelt down in front of me.
“Have you seen your sister, sweetheart?” he asked gently.
I shook my head.
Then the police arrived.
Blue jackets. Wet boots. Radios crackling with static. Questions I didn’t know how to answer.
“What was she wearing?”
“Where did she like to play?”
“Did she talk to strangers?”
Behind our house stretched a strip of woods along the property. People called it “the forest,” as if it were endless—but really, it was just trees and shadows.
That night, flashlights flickered between the trunks. Men called her name into the rain.
They found her ball.
That’s the only clear fact anyone ever gave me.
The search went on for days… then weeks. Time blurred together. People whispered. No one explained anything.
I remember Grandma standing at the sink, crying quietly, repeating, “I’m so sorry,” over and over.
Once, I asked my mother, “When is Ella coming home?”
She was drying dishes. Her hands stopped moving.
“She’s not,” she said.
“Why?”
Before she could answer, my father cut in sharply.
“Enough,” he snapped. “Dorothy, go to your room.”
Later, they sat me down in the living room. My father stared at the floor. My mother stared at her hands.
“The police found Ella,” my mother said softly.
