Belinda Davenport contacted me on social media two months ago. 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 a trendy bistro on First and Main. She said it was her favorite. I brought Emma, my 2-year-old sweetie pie, with me. We ate a delicious meal and I needed 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 use the restroom in the bank next door because their facilities were out-of-order. I did. I returned, but there was no restaurant. The building was boarded and locked up. The bank employees said it had been that way for seven years. My daughter was also gone. The cell company pinged my phone, and it should have been where I left it. It wasn’t.
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 social media company said the profile she used to contact me never existed. They had records of my replies, but the individual I replied to wasn’t in their system. The local media, likewise, refuses to help, even with police confirmation of the known events. The bank’s security cameras filmed our entering the structure. They couldn’t deny that. They even matched Belinda’s face to her old driver’s license photograph. I’m still looking for Emma, even though the world has moved on. I don’t believe I ever will.