Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 180510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 903(@200wpm)___ 722(@250wpm)___ 602(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 180510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 903(@200wpm)___ 722(@250wpm)___ 602(@300wpm)
Savannah wipes a tear from her cheek and smiles at her hopeful husband. She, too, knows. My mom keeps to herself. This has resurrected all the memories of my dad hanging himself. At least he left his body in plain sight, which made closure a little easier.
I don’t know which is worse: their hope or my certainty.
My phone chimes with a FaceTime from Reagan. I take a deep breath and search for a little smile. “Hey, Button.”
“Hi, Daddy. Did you find Josie?” She has a smile for me. And a cute, short hairdo. Josie was right. She’s adorable in short hair. “Mommy said she’s been sharing her picture and looking for her. I look for her too when I’m at school.”
My little girl knows how to hit me in the feels; her words make my eyes burn with unshed tears.
“That’s …” I swallow hard. “That’s nice of you and Mommy. Thank you.”
“I’m not mad that she cut my hair. Mommy said Josie wasn’t well. She said she was sad about something that happened a long time ago.”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. That’s right.”
“Well, she’ll get better. And when I see her again, I’m going to show her my hair and tell her that I’m not mad. And I’m going to tell her that Mommy has read me three of the books Josie gave me for Christmas. And yesterday I took the bag she gave me to the library, and it held eight books!”
“Oh yeah?” I hold my phone away for a second while I stand and head to the stairs, wiping the corners of my eyes with the heel of my hand. “That’s great.”
There’s a tiny but mighty thread I’m holding on to, and her name is Reagan Annabel Mosley.
“Mommy said I need to say goodbye. Can I spend the night with you this weekend? I want to go sledding.”
“Reagan, I told you Sean and I will take you,” Katy says in the background.
“But I want Daddy to do it.”
“Of course, Button. We can go sledding this weekend.”
“Maybe we’ll find Josie. Maybe she’s sledding. I feel better when I’m sledding.”
“Reagan …” Katy takes the iPad away from her and frowns at the camera. “I’m sorry, Colten. She just doesn’t understand.”
“Bye, Daddy!”
“Bye.” I ease my head side to side and rub the back of my neck. “It’s fine. I’m glad she doesn’t understand.”
“How are her parents doing? How is your mom doing? God, I’m sure she’s thinking about your dad a lot.”
I nod. “Yeah, I’m sure she is. Josie’s parents are playing the part. They’re going through the motions. Not giving up hope.”
“I don’t think any of us should give up hope, Colten.”
“I think everyone needs to do what’s right for them. If that’s hope, then I won’t take that away. But I knew Josie better than anyone, and that’s left me with a lot … a lot of love, a lot of memories, and a lot of emotions. Hope isn’t one of them.”
Katy frowns. “I’m keeping hope. I think Reagan needs it.”
I try to smile. “Agreed.” Reagan needs hope. She needs fairy tales. She needs Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. I need something different.
“I booked my flight.” Mom peeks her head into my bedroom. “Home just in time for Valentine’s Day by myself.”
I smile, glancing up from my notebook, back against the headboard, legs stretched long. “You could stay. I could be your valentine.”
She grins, taking a seat on the end of my bed. “Actually, Chad promised to take me to dinner anywhere I want to go since Philip will be out of town.”
“Go big.”
She chuckles. “I plan on it.”
It’s been nearly five weeks since the wedding. I work. I spend time with my mom and Reagan, and I send updates to Josie’s parents. It’s always the same update: nothing.
Rains thinks we might find her in the spring when the snow thaws or when Lake Michigan starts to thaw. It’s been frigidly cold. And what he means is we’ll find her body.
We won’t.
Maybe we were only kids when Josie said she’d die in a way that nobody would find her, but I have no doubt that adult Josie with her vast knowledge would keep that promise. Everything’s in limbo. She’s a missing person.
No funeral.
Her house sits empty.
Her parents can’t collect life insurance until a body has been discovered and one of her colleagues signs a death certificate. Most likely, they’ll see the money in seven years. That’s how long it takes to collect life insurance on a missing person.
Nobody needs the money.
Nobody needs her house.
We never got the chance to say our vows, so dealing with her possessions is up to her parents.
“Writing me a love letter?” Mom asks, nodding to my notebook and extra fine tipped Sharpie in my hand.
“Do you want me to write you one?”
She shrugs. “It would be nice. I’ve never been given a love letter.”