The Quinn family's car was gone.
The Camaro was gone.
The curtains had been taken down.
And the little wooden bench where Mara liked to paint stood abandoned beneath the oak tree.
I ran to my grandmother's porch.
“Grandma!”
She appeared at the door.
“What is it?”
“Where's Mara?”
Her expression changed.
For a moment, she seemed older.
Then she looked toward the neighboring house.
“They had to leave early.”
I stared.
“Where?”
Grandma hesitated.
“I don't know exactly.”
I felt anger rising.
“But she promised!”
Grandma reached toward me.
I stepped away.
“She promised she'd tell me goodbye!”
My grandmother's eyes filled.
“Caleb.”
I turned and ran.
I searched the backyard.
The creek.
The apple tree.
Our secret hideout.
Every place Mara might have left a note.
There was nothing.
By afternoon, I was sitting beneath the rose-covered fence crying so hard I could barely breathe.
Grandma found me there.
She sat beside me.
For a long time, she said nothing.
Then she placed one hand against my back.
“Sometimes grown-up problems change children's plans.”
I looked at her.
“That's not fair.”
She nodded.
“No.”
I wiped my face.
“Will she come back?”
Grandma stared toward the empty house.
For a moment, she seemed about to answer.
Then she looked down.
“I hope so.”
At twelve, I accepted that as the best answer anyone could give.
Years later, I would realize it was not an answer at all.
I spent the rest of that summer watching the mailbox.
Every morning, I walked to the end of the driveway.
Every afternoon, I asked whether any letters had arrived.
Grandma shook her head.
Nothing.
When my mother came to collect me, I made her promise we would return at Thanksgiving.
She agreed.
But Thanksgiving brought a family emergency, and we stayed in Chicago.
Christmas passed.
Then spring.
Then another summer.
By the time I returned to Millbrook, new tenants occupied the Quinn house.