She raises her black eyebrows a little at that, momentarily amazed because she knows I don’t trust people lightly, but she doesn’t waste time on it. “I checked the house,” she says. “He isn’t here, Mom. I can’t see he came back at all!”
“Okay, let’s take a breath,” I say, though I want to scream. I go to the kitchen, where I keep a list of phone numbers pinned to the wall―my son’s teachers, and the home and cell numbers of his friends’ parents. It’s a short list. I start dialing, starting with the friends. My anxiety ramps up with every ring, every answer, every negative. When I put the phone down after the last call, I feel hollow. Lost.
I look up at Lanny, and her eyes are huge and dark. “Mom,” she says. “Is it Dad? Is it—”
“No,” I say, an instant and unthinking rejection. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Javier noting it. He already believes that I’m running from someone; this just confirms it. But Mel is in prison. He’s never getting out, except in a pine box. I’m more worried about other people. Angry people. The Internet trolls, not to mention the justifiably enraged relatives and friends of the women Mel tormented and murdered . . . but how did they find us? Still, I flash back to the pictures from just a few days ago, of the faces of my children Photoshopped onto bloody, destroyed bodies, onto suffering, abused bodies.
If they had him, I think, they would have taunted me by now. It’s the only thing that keeps me sane.
“You were supposed to walk him to class after you got off the bus, Lanny,” I say. She flinches and drops her gaze from mine. “Lanny?”
“I—I had things to do,” she says defensively. “He went on ahead. It was no big deal—” She stops, because she knows that it is a big deal. “I’m sorry. I should have. I got off the bus with him. He was being an asshole, and I yelled at him to go to class, and I went across the street to the convenience store. I know I’m not supposed to.”
From the bus, Connor would have walked across the grassy triangle between the schools to the middle building. It would have been more likely for him to run into bullies than abductors, though there would have been plenty of parents dropping off kids outside the guard station entrance. I don’t know. I don’t know what he did, what happened to him once Lanny turned away.
“Mom? Maybe . . .” She licks her lips. “Maybe he just went somewhere by himself.”
I fix her with a long look. “What are you saying?”
“I—” She looks away and seems so uncomfortable that I want to shake it out of her. I’m able to stop myself. Barely. “Sometimes he goes off by himself. He likes to be on his own. You know. Maybe—maybe that’s where he went.”
“Gwen,” Javi says. “This is serious business. You should call the police.”
He’s right, of course he’s right, but we’ve already drawn the police’s attention once. If my son, of all people, has been sneaking away, being on his own . . . that frightens me in a way I can’t even explain. His father liked to be on his own.
“Lanny,” I say, “I need you to think now. Is there some special place he goes to be alone? Anyplace at all? In Norton? Around here?”
She shakes her head, clearly frightened, clearly feeling guilty for having walked away from him this morning. For having failed in her duty as an older sister. “I don’t know, Mom. Around here, he likes to go up in the woods. That’s all I know.”
It’s not enough.
Javi says, quietly, “I’ll drive around and see what I can spot, if you want.”
“Yes,” I say. “Please. Please do that.” I swallow hard. “I’ll call the police.”
It’s the last thing I want to do. It’s a dangerous move, just as dangerous as having Lanny as a potential witness to a body disposal; we need shadows, not spotlights. But every second I waste could be a second that Connor, hurt or (God forbid) taken, stands in real danger.
Javi heads for the exit. I start to dial the phone.
We both pause as a knock sounds on the door.
Javi gives me a look over his shoulder, and when I nod, he swings it open. The alarm chimes but doesn’t go off. In the panic, I’d forgotten to reset it.
Standing on the doorstep is my son, with an inadequately wiped bloody nose, and a man I barely recognize.
“Connor!” I rush forward, past Javi, to grab my son in a hug. He makes a gurgling sound of protest, and some of his blood smears on my shirt, but I don’t care. I let go and go to one knee to look at his damage. “What happened?”
“Got in a fight, I guess,” says the man who’s brought my son back to me. He’s medium height, medium weight, sandy dark-blond hair cut short, but not as short as Javi’s. He has an open, interesting face and eyes that lie steady on the two of us. “Hi. Sam Cade. I live up the ridge?” I finally remember him from two different sightings: first, he’d stepped in at the gun range against Carl Getts, and second, I’d seen him walking down the road below our house, earbuds in, waving quietly to us.
He offers a hand. I don’t take it. I usher my son inside, where Lanny grabs his arm and drags him off to see that his nose is cleaned up as it drips more dark blood. Javi stands quietly, arms folded, a silent presence that feels very, very comforting right now.
“What are you doing with my son?” It comes out sharp, urgent. I see Cade’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, but he doesn’t take a step back.
“I found him sitting on the dock. I walked him home. That’s it.”
I glare at him, because I’m not sure that I can believe him. Still. He’s brought Connor home, and Connor doesn’t seem afraid of him. Not in the least. “I remember you, from the gun range. Right?” There’s still a sharp edge to my voice.
“Right,” he says. My tone has brought a slight flush to his cheeks, but he’s working not to sound defensive. “I’m renting the cabin up the hill there, the one up to the east. Just here for six months or so.”
“And how do you know my son?”
“I just told you, I don’t,” he says. “I found him sitting on the dock. He was bleeding, so I cleaned him up and brought him home. The end. I hope he’s okay.” He’s matter-of-fact, but his voice is getting firmer. He wants this to be over.
“How exactly did he get hurt?”
Cade sighs, looks up at the sky as if searching for patience. “Look, lady, I just was trying to be nice. For all I know, you hit the kid. Did you?”
I’m taken aback. “No! Of course not!” But he’s right, of course. If I’d found a kid sitting with a nosebleed, I’d wonder if he was running from abuse at home. I’ve come at this all wrong, and too aggressively. “I’m sorry. I should be thanking you, Mr. Cade, not giving you the third degree. Please. Come inside, I’ll make you some iced tea.” Iced tea, in the South, is the hallmark of hospitality. Shorthand code for making someone welcome, and the all-purpose apology. “Did Connor tell you anything about what happened? Anything at all?”
“He just said it was kids at school,” Cade says. He doesn’t follow me in. He stands on the outside, looking in. Maybe Javi’s silent presence is warning him off, I don’t know. I make the glass of tea and bring it to the door. He accepts, though he holds it as if he’s not quite sure what it’s for. Takes a tentative sip. I can instantly tell this is not a man who’s used to the Southern traditions, because the sweetness of it surprises him. He doesn’t quite make a face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even ask your name . . .”
“I’m Gwen Proctor,” I say. “Connor’s my son, obviously, and you saw my daughter, Atlanta.”
Javi clears his throat. “Gwen, I should probably get going. I’m going to walk to the range; I’ve got a bike there I can ride home. You bring the Jeep back and pick up the van whenever you want.” He puts the keys on the coffee table and nods to Sam Cade. “Mr. Cade.”
“Mr. Esparza,” Cade says. I can’t leave a stranger standing here with my iced tea glass in his hand, obviously, and I’m not ready to run off and leave Lanny and Connor at home alone, either. So I let Javier go, though I hold him back for a moment to look him in the face.