Sophie flashed a smile that was just a little too practiced and said, “I just like to be clean.”
That answer should have eased my mind. Instead, it left a tight knot in my stomach. Sophie was usually messy, blunt, forgetful. “I just like to be clean” sounded like something she’d been coached to say.
About a week later, that knot turned into something much heavier.
The bathtub had started draining slowly, leaving a gray ring at the bottom, so I decided to clean out the drain. I pulled on gloves, unscrewed the cover, and slid a plastic drain snake inside.
It snagged on something soft.
I tugged, expecting clumps of hair.
Instead, I pulled up a wet mass of dark strands tangled with something else—thin, stringy fibers that didn’t look like hair at all. As more came free, my stomach dropped.
There, mixed with the hair, was a small piece of fabric, folded and stuck together with soap residue.
It wasn’t random lint.
