and moldy, were still on the sink. “I don't think Liane has been back here,” Kayla said, looking around. She looked into the other room and saw her old backpack on the floor, open and obviously searched, then abandoned. “I don't think she's been in here.”
Elizabet shook her head. “The police were here, but I know they were careful to leave everything the way it was.”
Kayla pulled her jacket a little more tightly around her, not from physical cold but something else. This place looked so empty, depressing. It was hard to believe that she'd lived here. When Billy and Liane had been with her, somehow the place hadn't looked so bad. It'd been more of an adventure than a dump. “I'm glad I don't have to live here anymore,” she said.
“Me too, child,” Elizabet said, smiling.
Kayla bent to pick up her backpack. She ­unzipped the main pocket, looking inside. There wasn't much there: half a candy bar, some change, and a bent photograph. She zipped it up again quickly, not wanting to look at the photo of her and her mom and dad in the backyard of their house, at her last birthday party. I shouldn't have kept that; I should have left that at the house, she thought. I should have—
“Is something wrong, Kayla?” Elizabet asked.
Kayla shook her head quickly, rubbing at her eyes. “No, I'm fine,” she lied. She slung the backpack over her shoulder. “I guess we should ask around out on the street, see if anyone has seen Liane. Folks would