“What was she wearing?”
“Where did she like to play?”
“Did she talk to strangers?”
Behind our house was a stretch of woods that ran along the property line. People called it “the forest,” like it was endless, but it was really just trees and shadows. That night, flashlights moved through the trunks. Men shouted her name into the rain.
They found her ball.
That’s the only fact I was ever clearly told.
The search went on for days, then weeks. Time blurred together. Adults whispered constantly. No one explained anything to me.
I remember Grandma crying quietly at the sink, whispering, “I’m so sorry,” again and again.
One day I asked my mother, “When is Ella coming home?”
She was drying dishes. Her hands suddenly stopped.
“She’s not,” she said.
“Why?”
My father stepped in.
“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,” she said quietly.
“Where?”
“In the forest,” she whispered. “She’s gone.”
“Gone where?” I asked.
My father rubbed his forehead.
“She died,” he said. “Ella died. That’s all you need to know.”
I never saw a body. I don’t remember a funeral. No tiny casket. No grave they ever took me to.
One day I had a twin.
The next day I was alone.
Her toys disappeared. Our matching dresses vanished. Even her name seemed to disappear from our home.
