Mrs. Strich's eyes were fretful with concern over my bruises and torn pantleg.
"Oh dear, you look awful, Mr. Sherwood. What's happened to you?"
"Rough night."
Mr. Strich was forking fried egg into his mouth and smiling.
"Not working for us, I hope," he said between chews.
"I'm afraid I was...I'm sorry." I breathed deeply. "I have some news—"
"—Nooo," Mrs. Strich cooed, "we're the ones who are sorry. We should've called you last night."
"It's bad news, Mrs. Strich."
"Don't be silly. We have wonderful news. Missy called."
"What?" I said. "Called you? When did you talk to her?"
"A little after ten."
Ten o'clock, I thought. Two hours before—
"You'll never guess where she is," Mr. Strich said.
On a cold steel table, her flesh gray under lights without warmth.
"She's home! In New Hampshire." He raised his coffee cup in a toast.
I couldn't quite process it, wasn't sure I'd heard right.
"That's right," Mrs. Strich said. "We must've literally passed each other on the highway. She got a ride from a Vermont family coming back from dropping their son off at NYU. She didn't need the money after all. Can you believe we made such a big deal of that?"
"I don't understand."
"She got a ride home with a friend's parents. A new boyfriend, I think. The Lord was looking after her," Mrs. Strich said, tears welling up in her eyes. "I'm just sorry we put you to so much trouble."
"No trouble," I said. "It's fine."
I stood up. I wanted to get out of there. I took Melissa Strich's photo from my pocket and handed it to her father.
"I won't be needing this then."
As it left my hand, I saw it was the wrong photo, the Polaroid of the girl with the green dreadlocks and pierced lower lip. Mr. Strich stared at it, looking lost.
"What is this?"
"It's...someone else's daughter."
THE END.