Page 6 of The Billionaire & the Virgin Chef
I found out a week later that Joy’s father has been transferred to somewhere in Europe by his company, and he took the family withhim.
Everyone except forJoy.
An officer from the local police department contacts me to let me know that she ran away the night before the rest of the family flew out. With Joy’s dad and step-mother in another country, all the cops have to go by is a phone call to report her missing. They interview her friends at school, which is no help at all, then they reach out tome.
At eighteen years of age, I’m Joy’s only living adult relative. The cops ask me to keep on the lookout in case she shows up or tries to contactme.
Ido.
Every day. Every night. I comb the local bus stations every chance I got, hoping she shows up. I reach out to all her friends on social media and email her teachers at school all the time. Every Saturday, I cook her favorite dish. Macaroni and hot dogs. No, it’s not gourmet food, but she loved it whenever Grams would prepare it for us. I’d make a big batch, keep one serving on the warmer, and put the rest into six bowls which I’dfreeze.
Just in case she showedup.
Every week, I play with the recipe to make it taste better. It becomes a habit. My thing. I love the kitchen because it was Grams’ favorite room in thehouse.
But no amount of cooking and no amount of wishing has brought Joy back tome.
I’m so close to losing my mind. It gets worse as the days pass. And weeks turn to months. The police phone me to inform me that they have no reason to believe something terrible has happened to her. That teenage runaways are close to impossible to find if they stay off the grid. It’s a cold case, they say. She could be a JaneDoe.
On the one-year anniversary of her disappearance, the police tell me that her file is officially a cold case file. They gaveup.
I start to lose hope. I stop cooking her favorite dish every week. To stop my heart from breaking into a million pieces that no one can ever put back together again, I force myself to prepare a meal for her one more time. When it’s done, I write her a letter and will myself to moveon.
Maybe I’m wrong to giveup.
I’m stillshattered.
My sister may still be outthere.
