Part 5: “The Visit”
It was a Tuesday when the knock came.
Three sharp raps on the screen door, just after lunch.
Laurel froze mid-step, a mixing bowl in one hand and a smear of flour across her cheek. Shadow rose from his place near the back door, stiff-legged, his hackles prickling like pine bristles.
Sadie was coloring at the table, humming to herself. She looked up, confused.
Laurel set the bowl down carefully and wiped her hands on her jeans. Then she opened the door.
A woman stood there, heels sunk into the dirt, arms folded over a faux-leather purse that had seen better years. Her blond curls were lacquered stiff. Sunglasses too large for her face. Beneath the gloss, something twitched in her jaw—nerves or guilt or both.
“Cassandra Jenkins,” the woman said. “I’m Sadie’s mother.”
Sadie went still.
She didn’t run to the door. Didn’t speak. Just set down her crayon and waited, lips parted like she’d forgotten how to breathe through them.
Laurel gripped the doorframe. “I thought you were in Florida.”
“I was,” Cassandra said. “But I heard what happened. About Elsie. About the girl. I didn’t know things had gotten so… bad.”
Shadow stood square in the doorway beside Laurel. He growled low—not loud, but deep enough to rumble in the floorboards. Cassandra stepped back, startled.
“He doesn’t usually like strangers,” Laurel said, not apologizing.
“I’m not a stranger. I’m her mother,” Cassandra snapped, her voice brittle now.
Laurel didn’t blink. “You haven’t seen her in three years. You didn’t come to the funeral.”
“I had reasons.”
Laurel tilted her head. “And now?”
“I want to see her. Just for a few minutes.”
Behind them, Sadie stood up slowly. Her small hand rested on the back of the chair, her knuckles white.
Laurel turned. “It’s up to you, baby.”
Sadie stared at the woman on the porch for a long moment. Then nodded once.
“Okay,” she whispered.
They sat in the front room. The air felt tighter. Dust motes hung frozen in the sunbeam slicing across the rug.
Cassandra crossed her legs, smiled too wide, and said all the wrong things.
“You’ve grown so much.”
“Do you remember that purple stuffed bear I gave you?”
“You still like mac and cheese, right?”
Sadie just nodded or shrugged, her eyes flicking to Shadow, who hadn’t taken his gaze off Cassandra once.
Laurel stood in the kitchen archway, arms crossed.
Cassandra cleared her throat. “You know… maybe you could come stay with me for a bit. In Clearwater. There’s a school near my place. They’ve got a pool. You could learn to swim.”
Sadie looked down.
“I don’t know how to swim.”
Cassandra’s voice softened. “That’s why I could teach you.”
Sadie’s eyes lifted. Not to her mother. To Laurel.
Laurel didn’t speak.
But Shadow did.
A sharp, sudden bark.
Sadie jumped.
Cassandra flinched.
Laurel stepped forward. “That’s enough,” she said to the dog, gently but firm.
But Shadow kept his body between the child and the woman on the couch.
And Sadie spoke, at last.
“I don’t want to go to Florida.”
Cassandra blinked. “You don’t even know what it’s like there.”
Sadie looked at her, voice clear now. “You don’t know what it’s like here.”
Cassandra left after that.
She didn’t slam the door, but the perfume lingered long after the gravel had settled behind her tires.
Laurel stood in the doorway and watched the dust trail disappear.
“She’s not coming back,” Sadie said behind her.
Laurel turned. “You sure?”
Sadie nodded.
Shadow returned to his place beneath the window, lying down with a sigh.
“I want to stay here,” Sadie said. “With you. With him.”
Laurel dropped to one knee, took both of Sadie’s hands, and held them tight.
“I want that too,” she whispered. “More than anything.”
That night, they buried the drawing Sadie had made—the first one, the one with the cloud and the family—beneath the sycamore tree out back.
“I think Grandma would like it here,” Sadie said.
Laurel nodded. “It’s a good place to remember.”
Shadow pawed at the dirt after they’d covered it, just once, then lay beside the mound like a sentinel.
A dog who had buried many things.
And guarded even more.