No explanation. No where. No how. No goodbye that says what last night was. No apology big enough to cover the empty bedroom.
I read it once.
Twice.
Then my hand closes around it so hard the paper crushes in my fist.
Please don’t follow.
I laugh.
It comes out wrong.
Ugly.
Dead.
She used the keys.
That is the thought that cuts cleanest.
I gave her a way out, and she used it.
Not the truck keys, maybe. Not the ones on the counter. But the choice. The door. The damn freedom I put in her hand because I thought I was strong enough to watch her decide.
Turns out I was full of shit.
I tear through the house again because panic ain’t logical and rage likes to check twice. Closet. Bathroom. Cabinets like August might be hiding behind canned soup. Back porch. Garage. Nothing.
No Amelia.
No August.
No Blue Rex.
No Lottie.
Only a note and a dead phone and my house full of all the places they just were.
At first, the fear is simple.
Jeremy took them. He held a gun to Lottie. Then the signs line up and ruin me differently.
The bags are gone, but not torn away. August’s shoes are gone, but the muddy pair stayed near the door. Her mother’s box is gone. The phone left on purpose. The truck left because it can be recognized. Lottie’s SUV gone because Lottie took them.
Careful.
Planned.
Not stolen by Jeremy.
Stolen from me.
By women.
By choice.
I put one hand on the table and bend over it, breathing hard enough to hurt.