Then I heard it.
It came through the back door. At first, I ignored it. Our dog, Baxter, had always preferred the yard where he had a warm, insulated doghouse on the porch. He’d been Lily’s loyal sidekick since she was five — a golden retriever mix with eyes too smart for his own good.
Normally, he barked when he wanted to come in, or barked once or twice to let me know he wanted food or attention, but this wasn’t barking; it was clawing. It sounded frantic, desperate, and high-pitched.
It came through the back door.
So, I stood up slowly, heart ticking faster than usual. My nerves had been raw since the accident. I tiptoed toward the door, unease rising in my throat.
“Baxter?” I called softly.
The scratching stopped, but only for a second. Then he let out a single sharp bark — the kind he only used when something was wrong. I remembered it from the time he had found an injured rabbit. And again, when Lily fell from her bike and scraped her knees.
The scratching stopped,
but only for a second.
I unlocked the door and opened it.
Baxter stood there, wide-eyed, panting, ears up. His tail was stiff, not wagging.
And in his mouth was something yellow.
I blinked hard. My brain couldn’t catch up with what my eyes were seeing.
“Baxter… is that…?” My voice trailed off.
He stepped forward, carefully set the soft, yellow fabric bundle at my feet, and looked straight up at me.
It was Lily’s sweater!
The same one I hadn’t seen since the police took it.
The same one she had been wearing when she died!
It was Lily’s sweater!
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