I open the bag, scanning through the contents.
Her phone is inside, the screen dark.
Her wallet with her ID and credit cards.
A tube of lipstick in that shade of pink she always wears.
Chapstick. A hair tie.
And something else—a small plastic stick with a pink cap that I don't immediately recognize.
I turn it over in my hand.
There's a small window on one side, and in the window?—
Two pink lines.
For a moment, my brain doesn't process what I'm looking at.
A pregnancy test. A positive pregnancy test. In Dalla's bag.
The world tilts sideways.
She's pregnant.
Dalla is pregnant.
She was going to tell me tonight—that's what she meant when she said she had something important to share.
Something life-changing.
She's carrying my child.
I shove the test back in the bag, my heart hammering.
Can't think about that now.
Can't process what it means.
I need to find her.
I need to find them both.
I keep searching, and that's when I see it.
Blood.
Not much.
Just a few drops, dark against the pale gravel, already drying in the afternoon sun.
But enough.
Enough to tell me she didn't go quietly.
Enough to tell me she fought.
She fought them, and they hurt her, and they took her anyway.
