Emma held onto my sleeve so tightly that her little knuckles turned white.
We were sitting under our oak tree in Riverside Park, the way we did every other Saturday. Her strawberry swirl was melting down the side of the cone and onto her fingers, and she didn’t even notice. A minute earlier she’d been laughing, telling me about her spelling test, about the word “because” that she’d finally gotten right. Now she was looking over her shoulder at the parking lot like she expected someone to be standing there.
“Grandpa,” she whispered. “Please stop giving Dad money.”
I thought I’d misheard her. I was sixty-seven years old and my hearing wasn’t what it used to be.
“What did you say, sweetheart?”
“The money you give him. Every year. Please stop sending it.”
“Emma.” I leaned down so my face was close to hers. “That money is supposed to take care of you.”
She shook her head slowly. Her eyes were very serious. They were her mother’s eyes, gray-green like creek water, and when she looked at me like that, it was like looking at a ghost.
“No, Grandpa,” she said. “It doesn’t.”
Then she said something I will remember until the day I die.
“Follow him one day. On a Thursday. Then you’ll understand why.”
My name is George Miller. For seven years, I believed my daughter was dead. I want to tell you how I found out I was wrong. But first I have to tell you how I lost her.
Laura was my only child. Eleanor and I had tried for years before she came along, and when she finally did, we treated her like the miracle she was. She was a stubborn, funny, bossy little girl who grew up to be a stubborn, funny, bossy woman. She worked at my grocery store every summer from the time she was twelve, stocking shelves and bagging groceries and telling the customers which peaches were ripe. Everybody in town knew her. Everybody loved her.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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