Have you seen Isa?”Connie, holding a basket, was about to head downstairs to the laundry room. Her shark eyes looked suspicious. “Latht I knew, thee wath playing out in the rain without a raincoat. But what’th wrong with you? You look pale ath death.”By the view from the kitchen windows, no Isa. “If she’s still out there, I should go get her and bring her in.”Turning, I saw them. His clothes. Pink shirt and khakis made a large, sopping wet ball on the top of the basket. My fears refreshed. “Where’d you find those?”Connie adjusted her basket. “On the lawn. Panth might be ruined—they’re linen. Itha mutht’ve taken them out of her father’th clothet for dreth-up.”She spoke so matter-of-factly, as if daring me to contradict her. “Connie, didn’t you see that kid out there with Isa? It wasn’t Milo.”A pound of thunder made me jump as glasses rattled on the shelves. Connie was frowning. “Oh, tho now ith Milo playing in the rain, too?” A fleck of spit hit my cheek.“I just said that it wasn’t Milo.
