A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

Dad doesn’t know it but I’ve read the texts the lady cop sends him.
They’re mushy, sloppy, sentimental. They make me want to vomit.
She massages Dad’s ego, tells him she admires how brave he is,
how gentle, how honest. I’ve been thinking about you, she
sometimes texts. You and Leo are on my mind all the time.
Gag.
They’ve got a plate of food for you. You’re eating. Except that it’s
like you forgot how to eat ’cause you’re doing it all wrong.
You’re thin. You’ve got pale skin. Your hands shake. Dad is so
sure you’re you that he rushes right up to you and gives you a hug.
You go stiff. It looks to me like you stop breathing. You try to pull
back, but Dad won’t let you. He’s crying. He’s holding on for dear life.
The lady cop has to lay a hand on his arm and tell Dad to give you
some room. I’m embarrassed for him. I feel my own cheeks get hot
because of the way he acts.
“You look just like your mom,” he says, cupping your face in his
hand and, from the pictures I’ve seen, you do. You both have red
hair, which is something because only about two percent of people
have red hair.
I hang back, by the door. I don’t know you.
Dad and the lady cop talk a long time. They stand too close. A
DNA test is pending, but that doesn’t matter because Dad already
knows it’s you. The lady cop suggests you get checked out by a
doctor. She wants to check for evidence that you’ve been sexually
abused. Dad looks like he might be sick when she says those words.
Sexually abused.
“Like a rape kit?” Dad asks.
I’ve heard of that before. The lady cop says yes. She touches his
hand, her voice going soft. “It’s precautionary, Josh. We don’t know
for sure that she’s been sexually abused. But if we can find the
person who did this to her, it will help convict him.” She says that
there might be DNA evidence on you that will aid in their
investigation. I don’t like that she calls Dad Josh. I also don’t like that
she touches his hand when she says it.
Dad’s torn. He wants to help the police, but he doesn’t want to
traumatize you. The line between these things is thin. Eventually
Dad says yes and we go to the hospital, where we sit in the lobby