My novel is 100 words …
The psychic looks at the mother, then the reporter. The pin drop silence is interrupted only by the clock; snapping off time in the late afternoon.
“She vanished at 12.30,” the psychic says, black fingers wrapped around a child’s silver locket, “Friday November 22nd.”
The mother’s face is expressionless.
“Every policeman in Dallas was looking for the man who shot the President.”
The mother turns her head. The reporter picks up a pen. The psychic speaks. “No one was looking for a little girl. Missing for fifty years.”
In a voice delicate as lace the mother whispers: “Please find her.”
© Debz Hobbs-Wyatt
The wait is almost over …
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