Girl, 11 by Amy Clarke (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

They combed the neighborhood, walking in pairs—Martín and Elle with an officer on one side of the street and another officer with Sash on the other—and knocking on every door. No one had seen her. They walked all the way back to Ms. Turner’s and checked there again, but the place still seemed abandoned. The only thing they found was a cold hunk of glass and plastic that Martín spotted on the icy street.

Natalie’s phone. Police collected it into evidence and scoured the area around it, but nothing further was found. It had been crushed, driven over by someone’s tire.

Finally, they went back to the Castillos’ house and waited. Waiting, in this case, involved a lot of crying and pacing and looking out the window over and over and over.

Everything blurred together as Elle huddled on her couch with her eyes on the floor until suddenly Ayaan was kneeling in front of her, a clear voice breaking through the haze.

“Elle, tell me what you know.”

She recounted the story again, every detail she could remember. Falling asleep, waking up feeling that something was wrong, the missed calls and texts from Natalie. She told Ayaan everything, down to the cold emptiness of the Hunter household and how she knew Natalie had never made it home.

Only when she finished everything did the sudden thought flicker to life in her mind, and she finally brought her eyes up to meet Ayaan’s serious gaze. “It’s been three nights since Amanda was taken, Ayaan.”

Ayaan’s full lips pressed into a tight, straight line. “Elle.”

“Don’t you see? This is . . .” She trailed off, horrified tears filling her eyes. “This is exactly his pattern. Natalie is ten years old. She’s next in the countdown.”

Martín walked through the door from the kitchen with a mug of tea, but he stopped short when he heard Elle. A pitying look passed between him and Ayaan, and Elle was about to open her mouth to say something when Sash stunned them all by shouting.

“Are you serious right now, Elle?” she spat, standing up from where she’d been slumped in Martín’s favorite recliner. “You’re really making this about your podcast? My daughter’s . . . disappeared . . . and you’re talking about fucking TCK right now?”

Setting the mug down in front of Elle, Martín turned to face Sash and held his hands up in a calming gesture. “Sash, I’m so sorry. This is a traumatic time. Please give Elle a chance to—”

“To what?” Elle cut in, jumping to her feet. Ayaan rose after her, taking a step to the side. “You said you believe me, always. Well, believe me now, Martín. This is TCK. It all fits—this is exactly what he does.”

With a growl of rage, Sash threw her cup of tea across the room. It shattered against the wall near Elle, hot amber liquid splattering on her clothes and down the wall. She flinched at the drops that splashed across her skin. An officer came rushing into the room, but Ayaan waved him away. Sash stood with her legs planted firmly apart, her shoulders heaving with anger as she glared at Elle. “Shut. Up.” Her friend’s face was contorted in a way Elle had never seen it before, her chest and neck flushed, her eyes gleaming. “TCK is dead, Elle. He killed himself in that cabin twenty years ago, and you know it. Everyone knows it, and they only indulge this stupid fantasy you have about catching him because they feel sorry for you.”

Elle drew back, her face stinging. “That’s not true.”

But Sash wasn’t finished. She took a step toward Elle and pointed her finger. “Stop deflecting. It’s your fault that Natalie left that house by herself. You promised me you would always be there to pick her up. You promised me, and I trusted you like you were my own sister.”

All the strength vanished from Elle’s legs, and she sat back down abruptly. Sash’s furious words beat on her eardrums like fists, the cold accuracy of them. It was her fault. She shouldn’t have fallen asleep. She should have been there the second Natalie realized Ms. Turner wasn’t home.

“Miss Hunter, we’re going to do everything we can to find your daughter,” Ayaan said, her voice a calming force that none of them could fight. Then, to Elle’s surprise, Ayaan sat down next to her and put one soft, comforting arm around her back. “I’ve seen relationships torn apart when something like this happens, but I promise you, it’s so much more bearable when you stick together. Blaming each other won’t help us find Natalie faster. Try not to turn on each other, okay?”

Sash looked back and forth between the two of them for a moment and then, without a word, she picked up her coat and stormed out of the house.

Elle wiped her eyes as her friend left and looked at Ayaan. “Do you believe me?”

Ayaan looked away, a small gesture that was crushing nonetheless. “I think you should take a step back from this, Elle. We don’t even know if these kidnappings are connected, and you are already convinced you know who’s responsible. You’re too close to be objective, especially now that Natalie is missing too.”

“Ayaan—” A sob cut Elle off. Through her tears, she could see that Martín was still standing in the corner of the room, but she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. Shame burned her neck, coiled in her shoulders.

“I know you’re hurting, Elle.” Ayaan’s brown eyes were troubled when she met Elle’s gaze. “I hope you get some help.”

A few minutes passed in silence after Ayaan left. Elle sat on the sofa and stared at the wall, letting the tears fall down her face unobstructed. Finally, Martín crossed the room and sat next to her. Slowly, his hand came up to rest in the center of her back as if to keep her from falling.

“What happened?” he murmured. “What can I do?”

Stiffening, Elle sat up and pulled out of his reach. “You can’t