Cocoa, Florida. July 20 2003

The name of my daughter is Lynn. I had been married to her dad, Mike, for about two years. We fought a lot about silly things—the way he left his socks on the floor, the way I squeezed the toothpaste tube from the middle. It was little stuff, but it added up, and that’s why we got divorced. After the divorce, he moved out and got a house on the other side of Cocoa, Florida, from us. Before too long, Mike had visitation rights assigned by the court. We had been doing visitation for about a year, and it was going fine. Things were routine. I would drop Lynn off on Friday evening at his place on Crescent Street, and on Sunday afternoon, I would pick her up.

This Friday, the routine was the same. I brought her to his house, and after a brief, awkward goodbye, I went home. The weekend felt strangely quiet without her usual chatter and laughter.

Two days later, on Sunday, I went back to pick her up. It was about 4:30 in the afternoon. The air was thick and heavy, smelling of rain that had just passed. It had rained for a few minutes while I was driving. When I got to the house, there weren't any cars in the driveway. The front curtains were closed. It looked like no one was home, which was strange since Mike was usually waiting for us.

I walked up the steps to the front door and rang the bell. The chimes echoed in the quiet air. There was no answer. So I rang the bell again. I peered in the window, but the curtains were closed. They were heavy, beige curtains that blocked out light and heat. A strange feeling of unease began to creep into my stomach. I started knocking on the door, a series of hard, loud raps, but there was still no answer.

I walked back to my car, a powder blue 1969 Buick LeSabre, and got my cell phone. I quickly dialed Mike’s number. On my way back to the front door, I could hear the phone ringing in my ear, a hollow, insistent sound, but there was no answer. So I knocked on the door again.

The unsettling quiet of the house was getting to me, so I started walking around the side, looking for a sign of life. As I got to the back of the house, I could see through a window that the curtains were open. That's when I noticed that the curtains weren't just open; there were no curtains. The curtain rods were bare. I was still redialing Mike's number as I walked to the window. I peered inside, and my heart dropped. There was nothing. All the furniture was gone. There was just this tiny pile of stuff in the corner—a few stray magazines and what looked like a stack of bills—but everything else was gone. The sofa was gone, the television was gone. Everything was just gone.

I started walking to the back of the house, by the kitchen window, still calling Mike and getting no answer. As I peered into the kitchen, a new sound cut through the silence. I could hear a phone ringing. That's when I saw the telephone on the kitchen counter. It was a dark, beat-up Samsung phone, the same one Mike always had. My heart began to pound against my ribs.

I went to the sliding glass door and tried to open it. It was unlocked, and with a soft glide, I went into the house. I picked up the cell from the kitchen counter; it was indeed Mike's old phone. There were three missed calls from me.

The house was completely empty. The sound of my footsteps on the bare tile floor was the only sound. I walked through the house, my voice echoing in the empty rooms. "Mike? Lynn?" There was no sign of them anywhere. I ran into Lynn's bedroom, a small room that had once held her favorite stuffed animals and dolls. It was empty. I went into Mike's room, and the same thing happened; everything was gone. The only things left were that small pile of magazines and bills.

I ran outside, my voice raw as I screamed Lynn's name, and that's when I saw Jean, my old neighbor from across the street. She was standing in her front yard, watering her flowers. She looked at me with a kind, sad face. "Jennifer?" she asked.

"Have you seen Mike and Lynn?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"Oh, honey," she said. "He moved out yesterday. A moving truck was here all day."

My daughter was gone.

Sincerely,

Jennifer Broadie