“I’ll sleep when they find my baby.”
I refused to accept it.
Mark accepted it too quickly.
He sold the boat, avoided the lake, and packed away Sophie’s fishing vest, but kept his red tackle box.
Then he moved it into our bedroom closet.
***
One night, I found him sitting on the closet floor with the box in his lap.
“Mark?”
He winced.
I refused to accept it.
“I just need it close, Danielle.”
“It’s dirty. Let me wipe it down.”
“No.”
His voice snapped so hard I stepped back.
“It still smells like her sunscreen, Dani.”
Then he cried. I wanted to be angry. Instead, I felt sorry for him.
“Let me wipe it down.”
***
I called the detective monthly and kept a binder with every update, map, and volunteer’s name.
Mark hated that binder.
“You’re torturing yourself,” he said one night.
“She’s my daughter.”
“She’s gone.”
I looked up slowly. “Don’t say that.”
“You have to let her rest.”
“You’re torturing yourself.”
“She isn’t resting until I know where she is.”
He looked away.
I should have seen it then.
***
Last Tuesday was exactly one year since Sophie disappeared.
I woke up angry.
The house felt frozen, and I couldn’t stand it anymore. Mark’s shirts still hung in the closet. Sophie’s cereal box still sat in the pantry.
I should have seen it then.
And that red tackle box sat on the floor like something sacred.
Denise called while I was pulling donation bags from the hall closet.
“Want me to come over?”
“If I don’t do something, I’m going to scream.”
She went quiet. “Call me before you break.”
I swallowed hard. “I think I already did.”
I sorted Mark’s shirts fast because stopping meant thinking.
“Call me before you break.”
Then my elbow hit the tackle box.
It crashed to the floor. The lid popped open, and lures scattered across the carpet.
The bottom panel had snapped loose.
Something wrapped in dirty white fabric slid out.
Mark had always joked about that false bottom.
“Extra-special bait,” he used to say.
It crashed to the floor.
My fingers shook as I unwrapped the cloth.
Inside was Sophie’s pink fishing scarf.
A small wooden sign.
A medical wristband.
And a folded receipt.
Then I saw Sophie’s name on the wristband.
A medical wristband.
“No,” I whispered.
The receipt was from a pediatric recovery center across state lines.
The intake date was July 18.
Three days after Sophie vanished.
Then I saw the sign.
Sophie’s uneven letters stared back at me.
“Mom’s Lake House.”
I grabbed my phone.
