One thing about being raised in Florida—it makes you pretty good at pivoting in the face of natural disasters, even when they’re not hurricanes. I gathered some spare clothes, the letters, and the picture of Addy’s mom, tucked them in Addy’s backpack and tossed it over my shoulder.
Dad and I met a returning Clint on the doorstep, car keys jingling in his hand.
“Addy was seen at the bus stop,” he said, pointing in the distance. “Doesn’t tell us where she ended up, but at least we know she didn’t just get snatched by somebody.”
“Good,” I said. “We thought we’d try Sylvia Maddox’s place.”
Clint nodded. “That’s a good idea. Do you need me to go with you?”
“I think we’ve got it.” I watched as lights flashed on in houses all around us. A man across the street hurried to get something from h
