“No.”
She rubbed her palms together.
“I went inside to buy water.”
“When I came out, a man was standing near my car.”
“What man?”
“I didn’t know him.”
“He said my rear tire looked low.”
“He offered to help.”
“Did you let him?”
“No.”
“I got into the car.”
“Then?”
“I don’t remember.”
The room seemed colder.
“What do you mean?”
“My next clear memory is waking up in a motel room.”
I stared.
“Where?”
“Knoxville.”
“Tennessee?”
“Yes.”
“How long later?”
“Almost two days.”
I sat down.
“What?”
“My purse was gone.”
“My phone was gone.”
“My car was gone.”
“I had bruises on my arms.”
“My head hurt.”
“I couldn’t remember how I got there.”
“Why didn’t you call us?”
“I tried.”
She looked at me.
“I called home from the motel office.”
“Dad answered.”
My chest tightened.
“What did he say?”
Evelyn’s face changed.
“He told me never to call again.”
I stood.
“No.”
“I knew you wouldn’t believe that.”
“Our father would never say that.”
“I thought the same thing.”
“What exactly did he say?”
She closed her eyes.
“He said, ‘Evelyn, listen to me carefully. Do not come home. Do not
contact Rachel or your mother. If you care about them, disappear.’”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“He sounded terrified.”
“No.”
“Rachel.”
“No.”
I paced toward the window.
Our father had been strict.
Private.
Sometimes emotionally distant.
But he loved us.
He would never erase one daughter.
Evelyn continued.
“I asked what happened.”
“He said my car had been found.”
“He said someone was dead.”
“I started screaming.”
“He told me the police believed the body was mine.”
My hands went cold.
“And then?”
“He said if I came back, you could be next.”
I turned.
“What?”
“He said someone had made a mistake.”
“And whoever made it would protect themselves.”
I stared at her.
“Who?”
“He wouldn’t tell me.”
“Did you call again?”
“Yes.”
“The number he gave me didn’t connect.”
I frowned.
“What number?”
She recited it.
The last two digits were reversed.
“That wasn’t our number.”
Her face drained.
“What?”
“Our number ended in forty-seven.”
“You said seventy-four.”
She stared at the floor.
“Dad gave me the number.”
My skin prickled.
“Then maybe you didn’t speak to Dad.”
She looked up.
“I knew his voice.”
“Could someone imitate it?”
“Maybe.”
“But there was something else.”
“What?”
“He knew about the tree.”
I froze.
“What tree?”
“The oak behind Grandma’s house.”
Only four people knew what she meant.
Evelyn.
Me.
Dad.
And our cousin Michael.
When we were thirteen, Evelyn and I had buried a metal box beneath that
oak.
Inside were letters we wrote to our future selves.
Dad caught us digging.
He promised not to tell Mom.
Michael had been visiting that weekend.
He saw us too.
“Did he mention the box?”
Evelyn nodded.
“He said, ‘Remember what we buried beneath Grandma’s oak. Some things
stay safer underground.’”
I sat slowly.
“That sounds like Dad.”
