That’s why we didn’t question it.”
I stared at her, stunned. Someone must’ve spoofed my number. I rushed out, didn’t even grab the bread.
In the car, I called Kinsey. The number I had was disconnected. Next, I tried calling Mom’s old house.
No answer. I even drove by—but it looked empty. Shutters drawn, no lights on.
I called the police. At first, they treated it like a misunderstanding. A “family matter.” They told me to calm down.
“Maybe your cousin just wanted to help,” one officer said. But I knew better. I knew how Kinsey operated.
She’d always been quick with charm and quicker with schemes. In her twenties, she sold knock-off makeup online, scamming half the neighborhood. In her thirties, she was in and out of jobs and relationships, always “finding herself.” Last I heard, she was broke, couch-surfing.
And now—she had my mother? I called the case manager from the nursing home. She was mortified.
Promised to launch an internal investigation, but that wouldn’t bring Mom back. I spent the next three days barely sleeping, calling every known friend or ex of Kinsey’s, even digging into her old social media accounts. Most of her profiles were dead.
One friend finally messaged me back: “I saw Kinsey at the Budget Inn off Route 14 a few days ago. She was with some older lady in a wheelchair.”
I was in my car in five minutes. The Budget Inn was the kind of place you don’t make eye contact in.
Mold on the curtains, flickering neon sign, two rusted vending machines. I knocked on room 108, heart pounding. No answer.
I knocked again, harder. Then the door creaked open—and there she was. My mom.
In her robe, sitting in her chair, dazed but alive. Her eyes lit up when she saw me. “Mila!” she gasped.
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