The last photo I have of my daughter before she vanished was taken on our front porch at 5:12 p.m.
Livia stood there in a pale blue prom dress, her hand linked through her twin brother Liam’s arm, wearing that impatient teenage smile that always made her look older than eighteen
“Stay together tonight,” I told them.
Liam smiled easily.
“We always do, Mom.”
Livia rolled her eyes.
“Mom, we’re eighteen, not eight.”
“I know,” I said, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “That’s why I’m nervous.”
My husband, John, touched my shoulder.
“Camila, let them enjoy prom.”
But I could not let it go.
I looked directly at Livia.
“And stay away from Mitchell.”
Her smile disappeared.
“Mom.”
“I’m serious.”
“No,” she said quietly. “You know his mom. That’s not the same thing.”
Mitchell’s mother, Natalie, and I had history. Bad history. The kind that leaves both women convinced the other one is always wrong.
