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PART 1
I hated myself more at night.
That’s when the guilt became unbearable. Not just for trusting a new city and a new school, but for every moment I convinced myself that my daughter was simply growing up and that I needed to relax.
Angelica was only sixteen years old.
The call came while I was heating up soup in the kitchen. At first, I only heard a police officer’s calm voice and an address repeated twice. I left the soup simmering and walked out without even turning off the heat.
When I arrived, blue emergency lights were flashing on the rain-soaked street. Angie’s bike lay twisted by the curb, while her friends stood nearby, pale and shivering.
A boy kept repeating the same phrase over and over:
“We tried. We’re sorry… we tried.”
I collapsed to my knees as the paramedics carried my daughter to the ambulance. A desperate part of me still believed that if I stayed close enough, the world might change its mind.
The next day, her friends showed up at my door with flowers, their eyes swollen from crying. I looked at them and realized they were the last people who had heard my daughter’s voice.
“Don’t come back,” I told them coldly. “You’ve done enough.”
Deep down, I knew they didn’t deserve it.
But pain needs a place to be released.
So I slammed the door in their faces, not realizing that Angie had already entrusted them with one last mission.
Before we moved to that town, Angie had been loving and sweet. She would leave sticky notes on the refrigerator, sit on the bathroom counter while I was getting ready for work just to talk to me, and once cried over an injured bird until we spent half the night searching the internet for how to help it.
I felt like she was both my daughter and my best friend in one person.
Then I was transferred to another company and, in one summer, Angie lost everything that was familiar to her.
Loneliness often pushes even good kids towards the first people who say to them, “Come with us.”
His new friends weren’t bad kids. They were just restless teenagers drawn to abandoned buildings, nighttime adventures, and the thrill of doing something reckless. They got caught exploring old places a couple of times, but nothing serious.
Even so, after Angie’s death, I couldn’t help but wonder if another friend could have changed everything.
Two days later, I buried my only daughter.
Throughout the entire funeral, he kept looking towards the church door, almost expecting Angie to burst in late, laughing and apologizing.
His friends didn’t come.
And I hated them for that too.
When the service was over, I drove home exhausted and dazed. But as I pulled into the driveway, I froze.
The front door was open.
The porch light was shining.
The living room lamp was on.
I knew he had turned everything off before leaving.
I went inside and found Angie’s four friends standing awkwardly among the funeral flowers, framed photographs, and untouched casseroles.
“What are you doing here?” I shouted.
A dark-haired boy stepped forward, nervous.
—It’s not what you think, Miss Mabel.
—How did they get into my house?
He swallowed with difficulty.
—Angie said you kept a spare key under the flowerpot outside.
I pointed to the door immediately.
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