"Mom, stop staring!"
"You're eight," I called back. "Keeping you safe is my job!"
Grant worked from home at the kitchen table. I found work too, because one salary wasn't enough and because I liked having something of my own.
"Keeping you safe is my job!"
For a while, I believed we were happy.
Then came that Tuesday.
Tara was sitting cross-legged on the floor, tying a ribbon around her stuffed rabbit's neck.
"Don't forget pancakes tonight," she said.
"I won't."
"Promise?"
I kissed her forehead. "Promise."
Then came that Tuesday.
Grant stood at the counter, reading notes for an article.
"I'll keep an eye on her," he said.
Those were the last normal words he ever gave me.
***
When I came home that evening, police cars were outside our building.
At first, I thought a neighbor had been hurt. Then I saw Grant near the garden gate, his face pale and his hands shaking just enough for everyone to see.
My bag fell from my shoulder.
"I'll keep an eye on her."
"Where's Tara?"
Grant turned slowly.
"She went down to play," he said. "I looked away for a few minutes."
"Grant, where is my daughter?"
***
For weeks, we searched.
Police searched. Neighbors searched. Strangers searched. Women held me while I sobbed. Men called my daughter's name until their voices went hoarse.
"Grant, where is my daughter?"
Tara. Tara. Tara.
Nothing came back.
There were no witnesses, no phone calls, no missing ribbon, and no Tara.
Grant cried in public. He gave statements. He spoke to anyone who would listen. But at night, when it was only us, he went strangely quiet.
I kept asking the same question.
"How does a little girl vanish from a garden right below our apartment?"
And he always gave the same answer.
There were no witnesses.
"I looked away, Cassidy. I looked away, and I'll hate myself forever."
***
After a year, Grant said we had to go home.
I didn't want to leave Cairo. Leaving felt like burying Tara there. But my body had worn down.
I stopped sleeping. I stopped eating unless someone put food in front of me.
So we returned to Ohio without our daughter.
