I see Trina Jordan’s face in my mind.
It’s there when I traipse to my shower, there as I dress and
pack my backpack.
Even the too-loud club music accompanying Dad’s morn-
ing workout in his basement gym doesn’t help to distract me.
I slip two pieces of wheat bread into our ancient chrome
toaster and find the cinnamon shaker on its designated shelf.
She took the dog for a walk, and she never returned. Neither did
the dog.
I grab a clementine from the bowl of fresh fruit on the
island and peel it over the trash.
I pour myself a glass of almond milk.
Business as usual, right?
The music from the basement comes to a dead stop. A creep-
ing dread crawls through me, chewing at the back of my neck.
Who’s coming up the stairs? The father who’ll reminisce
about sugar-cookie yellow? Or the man whose exes seem to dis-
appear without a trace?
“Morning, Sami.”
I flinch a little, even though I knew he was coming, but
hope he doesn’t notice. “Hi, Dad.”
31
