By Ruby Cofer
Dents in the wall, broken plates, and ash caking the furniture is all that remains in her house. There are tiny shards of glass fractured into spiderwebs, strewn across the floor. Maybe a fight, maybe a robbery, maybe nothing at all. But I think there is a drop of blood over by the windowsill, where the panes look too new and too neat. I thought there were limestone tiles by the fireplace, but maybe I was mistaken, and she always had that off-centered wood paneling, scratched and splintered like something had been ripped off. I’m sure he wouldn’t lie to me about where she is. He loves her so much. And he said he wasn’t home when the fight or the robbery or the nothing-at-all happened. He says she’s just away on vacation. But I find it a bit odd that something made this place so messy four days ago, yet the window is spotless, and the tiles are missing, just like my sister.