Callie had been missing for 18 hours before it occurred to me that they wouldn’t find her alive. I’d been sitting in the library, staring out the window at the high school football field across the street. No one had seen her since 3 in the afternoon the day before. It was 9 am.
I checked social media again. No news. I texted my brother. He sent me the article. They’d found her body somewhere in the park. It didn’t say where or what happened.
It’s always the boyfriend, right? He took off shortly after the police report was filed. I never liked him.
I couldn’t call Callie a friend. I hadn’t seen her in two years, but we had been in classes together and had studied together a few times.
A text flashed across my phone, the day and time of the memorial service. Of course it was on a Tuesday. Callie and I weren’t that close, and funerals are for the family and friends. I didn’t know them. Was I supposed to go to the memorial?
I didn’t go. Going wouldn’t bring her back.