A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

Dad asks if you want him to tuck you in, after you get dressed. His
eyes get wet when he does. They’re hopeful, desperate. I can hear it
in his voice. He’s begging you to let him tuck you in. It’s been eleven
years.
You stare back. You say nothing.
Dad stands down because of your silence. “If there’s anything you
need,” he says, “just ask.” Dad is as good as a stranger to you. It
would be pretty messed up for him to tuck you into bed. You’re also
too old for snug as a bug in a rug. Dad stopped tucking me in when
you disappeared. He was too busy crying himself to sleep to notice
me.
I lock my door when I go to sleep. I don’t know what kind of person
you are.
The lady cop said you escaped because you made your own
shank. Except she didn’t say shank. She said an improvised
weapon. You stabbed somebody with it. There was blood on your
clothes when they found you. It was his.
How do I know you won’t stab me, too?
I try to sleep. I can’t get comfortable. I think I won’t sleep. But then,
before I know it, I hear Dad calling for you, screaming out your
name. I look at the clock. It’s two a.m. Somehow or other, I slept.
I scramble from bed. I unlock the door and stumble from the room.
When I find him, he’s in the hall. He’s out of his mind. His breathing
is heavy. He spins in circles in the dark hall as if you’re right there,
two feet behind, but he can’t get there fast enough to see you.
I go for the light switch, turn it on. The bright lights hurt my eyes. I
use a hand to shield them. Dad’s sweating. He’s got a hand pressed
to his chest like it hurts. I’m not so sure he isn’t having a heart attack.
“She’s gone,” Dad says, coming to a stop in front of me. He’s
wearing pajamas. Dad doesn’t usually wear pajamas. Usually he
wears boxer shorts. But tonight he had the wherewithal to put
something more appropriate on, because of you. Except that the
pajamas are long-sleeved. He sweats because of them.
I ask, “What do you mean she’s gone?”
Dad grabs me by the shoulders. He gives me a shake and says,
“She just is, Leo. She’s not here. She’s gone. Delilah is gone.”