In the lower corner were two words in handwriting I would recognize anywhere.
Love, Cynthia.
Then I saw the date.
Three months earlier.
Three months.
My daughter had drawn this only three months ago.
She was alive.
She had been alive while I spent an entire year believing someone had taken her from us.
Beside the drawing was an envelope postmarked from a coastal town.
The place sounded familiar.
Gary had mentioned it once, years earlier, before he supposedly stopped speaking to Rhonda.
There was more.
A Greyhound ticket stub
