My throat aches, but not only for the obvious reasons. There’s something in me that recognizes the guilt that Lukas must feel—because I’ve erased things, too. A hidden photo album labeled Tax Docs 2019 hides my greatest shame.
I know what it’s like to bury someone who’s still alive.
And before I can think about it, before I can weigh the words or wonder why they’re coming out shaped this way, I ask, “What do you think she’d say if she could see you now?”
It’s a strange question. I know it the second it leaves my mouth. A good reporter would ask What happened next or Where is she buried or Do you have proof for what you’re saying.
But then again, the question is not really about Elena.
It’s about a hospital bracelet on a tiny, chubby wrist. A little girl whose hair must be red, though
