Belinda Davenport contacted me on social media. We were best friends in high school, but went onto different colleges in differing states. We lost contact. I loved thoughts of catching up. So, I met Belinda for lunch at that trendy new bistro on First and Main. I brought Emma, my 2-year-old sweetie pie, with me. We ate a delicious meal and I stood to go to the restroom. Belinda said she’d watch Emma for me. I even left my purse.
The waiter told me I had to go to the bank next door because their facilities were out-of-order. I did. I returned, but there was no restaurant there. The building was boarded and locked up, and the bank employees said it had been that way for a decade. My daughter was also gone. The cell company pinged my phone, but were unable to find it’s vicinity.
The police said Belinda Davenport died in a car accident 8 years ago. The police contacted the building’s owner and got inside. All they found was an old dusty coat. It was my coat. The one I just wore. The bank’s security cameras filmed our entering the structure, confirming my story. I haven’t heard from them since.