Missing or Dead?

“She won’t return my phone calls.  She won’t return my texts.  If she’s not missing, then she’s dead.  Can you do a welfare check?”  I stared at the police officer and hoped he would take me seriously. 

At twenty-five years old, I often got mistaken for a teenager.  And by the look on Officer Henry’s face, he wasn’t going to take me seriously either.  He hadn’t written down any information and seemed more interested in the coffee being brewed behind me.   

“Aren’t you going to write anything down?  Like Marisa’s name, birthdate, when I last saw her?”  I moved slightly in my chair to block his line of sight to the coffee maker.  All he did was sigh heavily. 

“I promise she isn’t missing.  I have heard this same story with slight variations over the course of five or six years.  I know this information by heart.”  

“But… you didn’t write anything down so how do you know?” 

“Marisa is my daughter. She gave up trying to contact anyone several years ago when she ran off with that tramp of a husband. She knew then what she was getting herself into.” 

Without another word or even a glance, the police officer – he must be Mr. Henry (Officer Henry?) – stood and opened the door for me. Like he was expecting me to leave without another word. Like I was supposed to drop everything because he thought I should. That’s when I knew he knew exactly what happened to his daughter. 


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