“She’s probably outside,” she said. “You stay in bed, all right?” Her voice shook.
I heard the back door open. “Ella!” Grandma called.
No answer.
“Ella, you get in here right now!” Her voice climbed. Then footsteps—fast, frantic.
I got out of bed. The hallway felt cold. By the time I reached the front room, neighbors were at the door. Mr. Frank knelt in front of me. “Have you seen your sister, sweetheart?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Did she talk to strangers?”
Then the police arrived—blue jackets, wet boots, radios crackling. They asked questions I couldn’t answer. “What was she wearing?” “Where did she like to play?” “Did she talk to strangers?”
They found her ball.
Behind our house stretched a strip of woods. People called it “the forest,” though it was just trees and shadows. That night, flashlights bobbed through the trunks. Men shouted her name into the rain.
