She had exhausted the books on her limited shelf, but she knew they only painted a partial picture. She also understood that she couldn’t just turn up at the local library asking questions, that would only lead people right to her door.

If I close my eyes tightly enough, I can almost taste the swirl of chocolate and vanilla, feel the warm, dry air of a Scottsdale evening. 

He was a transplant here, a ball of dirt and root ripped from the ground and dropped into foreign soil. The earth could tell he did not belong here.

When she looked into my eyes, I knew.

After work she’d slip out the back door and down the alley, cutting across just a few blocks to the creaky home she still lived in with her grandparents. Her routine was part of her, and so was this place.

Dropping the backpack on the ground, crouching close to the earth to open the zipper, I looked up at the only person that could ever understand what happened here.