“Her blue Buick was parked right by your mailbox at noon.

Didn’t she meet you at the airport?”

I turned the key until the brass tumbler clicked inside the lock.

The deadbolt gave, but the air in the foyer hit me with the thick, sour smell of old milk in a warm house.

The digital thermostat on the hallway wall glowed orange at seventy-eight degrees.

“Derek?” I called into the dim front room.

No water ran in the pipes, and no television hummed from the den at the back.

The curtains were pulled shut across the front windows, cutting the afternoon light into thin gray strips across the floor.

On the green microfiber sofa against the far wall, a small mound of quilted fabric shifted two inches toward the back cushions.

Lily lay curled on her right side with her knees pulled tight to her chin.

Her skin had the chalky gray look of dried paper, her cheeks were hollow, and her lower lip was split down the middle.

She clutched a gray stuffed rabbit tight against her chest, its worn plush fur pressed flat against her collarbone.

I dropped my key ring on the coffee table and knelt on the hardwood floor beside the cushions.

“Lily-bug.