“In other news, police are still searching for local 36 year old Cherry Creek woman Mahta Holmgren, last seen wearing a blue parka and green joggers. Mahta told her family she was going to make the 15-minute walk to a friend’s house late Saturday night, as she often did. But she never got there. Authorities say anyone with leads should contact local police or send tips of Mahta’s whereabouts to-“

CLICK! Tom couldn’t listen any more. He was thinkinc about how she had texted him that night, the night she disappeared. ‘I’m lost’. He had taken it to mean something metaphysical at them time, but decided to ignore his instinct, and before he could stop himself, he was typing a response. It was 6pm and he knew she was headed to Lorelei’s house across the riverbanks, and instead he told her to follow the railroad tracks so she wouldn’t be lost anymore. He liked being the one with answers; he liked this more than he liked being right.

Mahta always hated when he beat around the bush, but Tom was officially done with what he perceived to be her insecurity shrouded in weakness. She wanted a break, so he gave her space. And now suddenly here she was again on his screen, like always, except this time, saying she’s lost. Did he hate that it was his ego that told him that she probably meant ‘lost without him’? It was too late to worry about that now.

The tea kettle started whistling from the other room. Tom hurried into the kitchen and removed the kettle from the stovetop.

He had just begun steeping two teabags of chamomile so he could sleep. He was now certain that he had no tips to give the police, and even if he did, he probably didn’t have the courage to follow through. It was just like she always told him. ‘You’re weak’ she’d say. ‘You need help’ she’d say. Tom decided the best revenge was silence…. Even if it came with the overwhelming repercussive fallout of apathetic inaction, which in her eyes was his specialty.

He dipped the tea bags up and down, up and down in the kettle, the way one does when one is anxious and impatient for the tea to be ready. As he was doing this, there was a knock knock knock at the door.

Tom walked out into the hallway. From the elongated, foggy glass side window, he saw the silhouette of someone standing on his front porch, a figure fading into the dim splash of street light in the background.

The figure leaned over again and knocked three more times. Tom advanced, finally unlocking the latch.

He opened the door.

It was a woman. She was wearing a blue parka and green joggers. Her hair was tousled, her face was bleeding, and her tears both old and new, created deep rivers of blurry, faded, dried blood and water streaking down swollen, hungry cheeks.

She looked up at him. ‘I did what you told me’ the woman said in a small, quivering voice. ‘I followed the railroad tracks.’