Mrs. Gable called back forty-three minutes later.
I know because I spent every one of those minutes looking at the clock.
When the telephone finally rang, I answered before the second ring.
“Laura?”
“Yes.”
“Sadie is at school.”
The relief that moved through me was immediate and embarrassingly large.
“Is she okay?”
“I need you to listen carefully.”
That erased the relief.
“All right.”
“Sadie arrived this morning. She’s currently with me and another staff member.”
“What happened?”
“I still can’t give you details I’m not authorized to share.”
“Then why are you calling?”
“Because of the backpack.”
I looked toward it.
“What about it?”
“You said she left it at your house.”
“Yes.”
“Was that the bag she brought for the sleepover?”
“Yes.”
“Have you opened it?”
“I looked for contact information. That’s how I found her grandmother’s number.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Something in the way she said it bothered me.
“Why?”
“Please don’t search through it further.”
My skin prickled.
“Mrs. Gable, what is going on?”
“I’ve contacted the appropriate people.”
“What people?”
“I can’t discuss that over the phone.”
“Child protective services?”
Silence.
That was answer enough.
I sat down.
“Oh, God.”
“Laura, I need you to stay calm.”
“I am calm.”
I was not.
“Did Sadie tell you something?”
“I can’t tell you what Sadie has or hasn’t said.”
I pressed my fingertips against my forehead.
“What am I supposed to do with her bag?”
“Someone may contact you about collecting it.”
“Someone from the school?”
“Possibly not.”
I looked at the backpack differently.
“What could possibly be in it?”
“I don’t know.”
That answer sounded genuine.
Before I could ask another question, she said, “Did Sadie have access to the backpack throughout the sleepover?”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone else?”
“The other girls were around it.”
“Any adults besides you?”
“No.”
“Did Kurt come inside?”
“No.”
“Her mother?”
“No.”
“All right.”
I heard paper moving.
Then Mrs. Gable asked the question that changed the shape of the entire weekend.
“Laura, are you certain Sadie forgot the backpack?”
I stared at it.
“What?”
“Think carefully.”
“I found it after she left.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
My heartbeat became louder.
“She hugged me before leaving.”
“You mentioned that.”
“She knew the bag was there.”
“Did she?”
I replayed Saturday morning.
Sadie rolling her sleeping bag.
Checking her shoes.
Picking up the nylon backpack.
Wait.
Had she picked it up?
I had remembered her carrying something because I expected her to.
Now I was no longer certain.
“I don’t know.”
Mrs. Gable said nothing.
I stood and walked toward the table.
The backpack was inexpensive navy nylon with one broken zipper pull.
“Why would she leave it intentionally?”
“I’m not saying she did.”
“But you’re asking.”
“I’m asking you to remember accurately.”
I touched the top handle.
Something hard pressed against the fabric from inside.
I withdrew my hand.
“Mrs. Gable.”
“Yes?”
“There’s something in here.”
“Don’t open it.”
“I can feel it through the bag.”
“Laura, leave it exactly where it is.”
The firmness in her voice stopped me.
“Okay.”
“I mean it.”
“I said okay.”
“Someone will call you.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know yet.”
She hung up ten minutes later.
At ten seventeen, a county social worker called.
Her name was Denise Harper.
She asked me to repeat everything.
Again.
By the third telling, I hated the sound of my own voice.
Denise did not react to the details.
She asked dates.
Times.
Exact phrases.
Who had attended.
Who had picked Sadie up.
Whether I had photographs.
I had none.
“Did you photograph the wrist?”
“No.”
“That’s fine.”
“I should have.”
“No. You observed something and reported it.”
Her tone was neutral rather than comforting, which I appreciated.
“What happens to Sadie?”
“We’re assessing the situation.”
“Is she going home today?”
“I can’t discuss placement decisions.”
The phrase placement decisions made my stomach turn.
“What about the backpack?”
“We’d like to collect it.”
“Why?”
“Because it belongs to Sadie.”
“That isn’t the whole reason.”
“No.”
At eleven twelve, Denise arrived with another woman who introduced herself as Investigator Ramirez.
The presence of an investigator transformed my kitchen.
Until then, I could still pretend I was involved in an unusual school matter.
A law-enforcement badge ended that fantasy.
I placed the backpack on the table.
Ramirez photographed it before touching it.
“Did you move this?”
“From the den to the kitchen.”
“Did you open it?”
“Only the front section and the flap while looking for contact information.”
“Did you remove anything?”
“No.”
She put on gloves.
I watched.
“You think there’s something inside.”
“We don’t know.”
She opened the main compartment.
On top was a pair of pajamas.
Beneath them were two shirts, underwear, a toothbrush and a plastic comb.
Nothing unusual.
Then Ramirez lifted the clothing.
At the bottom lay a small metal cashbox.
The kind sold for keeping coins or documents.
It was scratched and old.
A strip of masking tape crossed the lid.
Written on it in a child’s handwriting were three words.
FOR GRANDMA ONLY.
I stopped breathing for a moment.
Denise and Ramirez exchanged a look.
“You didn’t see this?” Ramirez asked.
“No.”
“Do you know why Sadie had it?”
“No.”
Ramirez examined the box.
It was locked.
A tiny key had been taped beneath it.
Denise looked at me.
“Mrs. Carter, I need you to understand that we may have to ask you for another statement.”
“What is in there?”
“We don’t know yet.”
Ramirez removed the key.
The lock clicked.
Inside were folded pieces of paper.
A handful of receipts.
Two photographs.
And a child’s pink sock.
Only one.
Ramirez’s face changed when she saw it.
She lifted the photograph nearest the top.
I could not see the whole image from where I stood.
I saw enough.
A child’s bare ankle.
A dark mark.
Then another mark above it.
Ramirez immediately lowered the photograph.
Denise closed her notebook.
“Laura, I think we have what we need from you for now.”
I stared at the box.
“Sadie left that here on purpose.”
Neither woman answered.
“She wanted me to find it.”
“We don’t know that yet,” Denise said.
“But she wrote her grandmother’s number inside the backpack.”
Ramirez looked at Denise.
That detail mattered.
I pointed toward the lid.
“And that says it’s for her grandmother.”
Ramirez asked, “Was the telephone number hidden?”
“Under the flap.”
“Could Sadie have put it there herself?”
“I suppose.”
“Did you mention finding the number to anyone besides Mrs. Gable?”
“No.”
“Not Sadie’s mother?”
“No.”
“Kurt?”
“Absolutely not.”
Ramirez nodded.
“Keep it that way.”
A chill moved through me.
“Does Kurt know anyone is investigating?”
“We’re handling contact.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Ramirez studied me.
“No,” she said finally. “As far as we know, he does not.”
The two women packed the contents carefully.
Before leaving, Denise paused at my door.
“You did the right thing by calling the school.”
“I waited two days.”
“You called.”
“I almost took the backpack straight to their house.”
“But you didn’t.”
I looked at the evidence bag in Ramirez’s hand.
“What happens if Sadie has to go back there?”
Denise’s expression remained professional.
“We’re working on keeping her safe while we establish what happened.”
I watched them leave.
For several hours, nobody called.
Emma came home at three fifteen.
She dropped her schoolbag by the stairs and walked directly into the kitchen.
“Where’s Sadie?”
The question startled me.
“What do you mean?”
“She wasn’t in class after lunch.”
I turned toward the sink.
“She had to leave.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know what I’m allowed to tell you.”
Emma frowned.
“You’re acting weird.”
“I know.”
“Is Sadie sick?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Is she in trouble?”
“No.”
That answer I could give immediately.
“She is absolutely not in trouble.”
Emma watched me.
Then she asked, “Is Kurt in trouble?”
I turned around.
“Why would you ask that?”
Emma’s face changed.
It was the unmistakable expression of a child realizing she had revealed something accidentally.
“Emma.”
She looked at the floor.
“Why did you ask about Kurt?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve.
“Sadie doesn’t like him.”
“How do you know?”
“She just doesn’t.”
“Has she told you something?”
Emma’s eyes filled with alarm.
“Am I going to get her in trouble?”
“No.”
“Promise?”
“I promise you that telling me something Sadie said will not make me angry with her.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
Emma swallowed.
“She said if grown-ups knew, they’d send Waffles away.”
The room seemed to contract around me.
“Her guinea pig?”
Emma nodded.
“When did she say that?”
“A while ago.”
“How long?”
“Maybe before summer.”
“What did she say grown-ups would find out?”
“I don’t know.”
“Emma.”
“I really don’t.”
She began crying.
I immediately regretted the pressure in my voice.
I pulled out a chair.
“Sit down.”
“I promised.”
“You’re not betraying her by telling me something that might keep her safe.”
“She said Kurt knows when she tells.”
“How?”
Emma wiped her cheek.
“She said he checks.”
“Checks what?”
“I don’t know.”
I thought of the sneakers.
The photographed ankle.
The single sock.
“What else?”
Emma stared at me.
Then she whispered, “Sadie asked me something at the sleepover.”
“What?”
“She asked if you were brave.”
I could barely speak.
“What did you tell her?”
“I said you yell at spiders.”
Despite everything, a startled laugh escaped me.
Emma looked miserable.
“I told her you were brave about people.”
My laugh vanished.
“When did she ask?”
“Before we went to sleep.”
“Before I talked to her?”
Emma nodded.
The forgotten backpack.
The hidden telephone number.
The locked box.
For Grandma Only.
I understood then that the sleepover might never have been merely a birthday invitation to Sadie.
It might have been the first house she believed she could leave something behind in.
Click here to continue reading: PART 4: Sadie Had Not Chosen My House by Accident, and the Reason She Trusted Emma Put Someone Else in Immediate Danger
The Only Girl Who Would Not Leave Her Shoes Beside the Door Was Watching Me for a Reason
Part 3 of 28
