The question hung in the air, heavier than the humidity.
"Where is it, Noah?"
Sarah didn't shout. She didn't have to. She sat at the kitchen table, the police report resting under her fingertips like a verdict.
Noah stood by the counter, gripping the plastic handle of the milk jug. His knuckles were white. He was still wearing the grey zip-up hoodie, zipped all the way to his chin.
"The... the sweater?" Noah asked. His voice cracked. A perfect, clumsy crack.
"The beige one," Sarah said, her eyes drilling into him. "Cable-knit. The one Benny Miller saw his 'hero' wearing today. The one you were wearing when you left this morning."
Noah set the milk down. THUD.
He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous tic she had seen a thousand times.
"I, uh... I ruined it."
Sarah took a slow sip
