“What did she say?”
“She said she was listening to the radio.”
Silas’s gaze returned to the fresh flowers.
“But radios don’t bring daisies.”
He was right.
I stepped into the hallway and called my supervisor. I explained what I had found without making assumptions. A child had arrived at a house where no guardian appeared to be present. The exits were partly obstructed, and there were unanswered questions about who had recently been inside.
My supervisor contacted the family services liaison and asked me to remain with Silas until we reached his father or grandmother.
When I returned to the hidden room, Silas was sitting on the edge of the bed.
He had not opened another letter.
He simply rested his hand on the quilt.
“Do you think she’s alive?” he asked.
There are questions children ask because they want information.
And then there are questions they ask because the answer will divide their life into everything that came before and everything that comes after.
“I think there are adults who need to tell you the truth,” I said. “And I’m going to stay until someone does.”
He studied me carefully.
“You promised you wouldn’t leave before you saw.”
“I saw.”
“So now you can leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere yet.”
His shoulders lowered a fraction.
It was the first time since we had met that he looked less prepared to be disappointed.
I called the number listed for his father.
Daniel Granger answered on the fourth ring. Behind his voice I could hear machinery and people talking. He worked at an equipment repair company on the eastern edge of town.
“This is Officer Mara Ellis,” I said. “I’m at your mother’s house with Silas.”
There was a sharp pause.
“Why?”
“He approached me outside the school and asked for help.”
“Is he hurt?”
“No.”
“My mother?”
“She isn’t here.”
Another pause followed, longer this time.
“She’s supposed to be there.”
