Her Secret Son

by Hannah Mary McKinnon

  Sweat collected underneath my armpits, and a cold trickle sneaked its way down my back. When I’d—however tentatively—imagined Grace as a kidnapper, I’d focused on her stealing an infant, hadn’t stopped to consider the parents, other than to imagine the terror they’d felt when they’d found out their child was gone. What if Grace had hurt someone? What if she’d decided she wanted a child so badly, she’d been prepared to do anything? Even kill for one.

  I picked up the photograph of Grace, a black-and-white picture I’d taken two summers ago when she wasn’t watching. She’d sat on the deck reading another book, so deeply engrossed she hadn’t noticed me. I’d watched her turn the pages, the breeze gently blowing the loose strands of hair around her face. Over a dozen photographs had been taken on my mobile before she’d looked up. I’d promised to delete them, which I had, except for my favorite one I’d printed, framed and put in the den despite her objections, because in it she’d seemed so serene, at peace and content.

  How could she feel that way if she’d taken a child? If she’d harmed his parents? How was it possible for Grace to be the best partner, the most loving mother in the world, and have done something so despicable? Did she feel remorse? Shame? Did she have nightmares?

  “Nobody should die with this many secrets,” I said out loud. “Nobody should be allowed to do what you’re doing to us.”

  A swell of anger made it from my brain to my hand. In an instant I’d launched the picture hard, sent it smashing against the wall with a dull crunch. As it fell to the floor in pieces, I did, too, and I stayed there for a long time before daring to reach for the tablet, and expanding the parameters of my search for other missing kids.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “This is for you.” Lisa shoved a piece of paper into my hands as I sat across from her over a Thai lunch she’d insisted on inviting me to. It was packed, the minimalist decor barely absorbing any of the noise. Thankfully our booth was tucked away at the back, close to the kitchen doors, the waft of satay and lemongrass filling the air every time the waitstaff hurried by.

  “Is this a check?” I unfolded the paper, my forehead scrunching into a frown. “Five grand? I can’t—”

  “You can,” Lisa said. “You need cash. I’ve got cash. Don’t make it a big deal.”

  “It is a big deal. How did you know I needed—”

  “I’m not daft, Josh. I see things, and I knew you’d never ask. You’re too bloody proud.”

  “But—”

  “Take it for Logan. I won’t have my nephew eat ramen noodles and ketchup—”

  “It was once. And only because I’d run out of—”

  “Food?” She paused. “Well, now you won’t. I’ll give you more if you need it, no problem. But so help me if you spend even a cent of it on booze I’ll—”

  “I won’t.” I shook my head, trying to convince her as much as myself. “I promise.”

  “Good. Okay, I’m going to clumsily change the subject now, and you’ll be fine with it.”

  “Thanks, Lisa.”

  She waved a hand, dabbed her lips with her napkin, whispered, “What’s going on with the other situation?” When I looked down, she grabbed my hand again. “What did you do? Please don’t tell me you went to the police.”

  “No, I mean... I’m still thinking about it. Did Ivan tell you Vital Records came back with nothing?” Lisa nodded so I said, “I don’t know what to do about the cops. Not yet.”

  “Good,” Lisa said. “That’s good.”

  “I’ve done so much research, it’s all I can think about, and I keep coming back to the same points.” I counted on my fingers. “Not the birth mother. Not fostered. Not adopted. Not listed as any kind of dependent.”

  “I know, I know. It’s crazy.”

  “I have to find out where he came from, Lisa. I need to know if Grace...if she...”

  “Took him...?” Lisa said gently.

  “Yeah. I mean, could there have been a valid reason?”

  “What, you mean if she rescued him because he was in some sort of danger?”

  “Exactly. You know Grace. She took in every waif and stray when she had the chance.”

  “Remember the robin?” she said with half a smile.

  “Jesus.” I rubbed my forehead, tried to unfold the creases that had claimed their permanent place, making me an old man. “I’d forgotten about the bloody bird. She hand-fed the thing for three days straight.”

  “Uh-huh, until the stray cat ate it.”

  I grimaced, put down my fork, my gaeng dang gai no longer appetizing. “That was unfortunate. Anyway, if Grace was a...psycho, surely I’d have noticed the signs? No, there’s got to be a logical explanation why she had Logan. But I can’t work it out.”

  Lisa kept quiet. I knew what she was thinking: How many people had no idea what kind of heinous crimes their partner carried out behind their back? How easy had it been for Grace to get me to believe anything? Nice, placid, gullible Josh, such a good little lie-eating boy. The anger inside me bubbled up again, so I forced it back down my throat with a forkful of food.

  “I get it, I do,” Lisa said. “You need to know. Tell me what you’ve found out so far.”

  “Quite a lot, I think, but there’s a crap lot of speculation, too.” I told her about my conversation with Mrs. Banks and the two HR people where Grace had worked. “Basically there’s a window from October thirtieth to November eighteenth when Grace left her Portland job, where I don’t think she had a kid, and showed up in Albany with a baby.”

  “And Logan would’ve been what...six or seven weeks old?” Lisa said.

  “Tops. We’re talking about something happening in under three weeks in a relatively small area. Unless she went out of state or traveled abroad, but as far as I know she didn’t have a passport. I couldn’t find one anywhere, but that means exactly shit.”

  My sister stared at me for a while. “You’re scary, you know? Maybe you should forget landscaping. Be a private detective instead.” She pushed her pad thai away.

  “Not hungry?”

  She pouted. “Still feeling sick.”

  “Jesus, Lisa. I haven’t asked you about the baby. I’m pathetic.”

  “You’re not. I’m fine, baby’s fine. It’s a few inches long and weighs less than an ounce.”

  “How’s Ivan?”

  “God, he’s distracted. Yesterday morning he left without his work bag, then he came back to pick it up and I noticed he was wearing odd socks.” She grinned. “Talk about baby brain. He’s going to be a total mess before it’s born. And after. I think he’s freaking out a bit but trying to hide it.”

  “When’s he moving in?”

  “A couple of weeks. Did he tell you he sold his place? He’s in the middle of packing up. It’s cardboard city over at his flat... Anyway, never mind us. What else did you find out?”

  I exhaled deeply. “Three missing kids fit my timeline, but two of them are a long shot.”

  “Why?”

  “They disappeared from the same town within a few weeks of each other.”

  Lisa let out a gasp. “You’re talking about the Faycrest boys.”

  “You’ve heard of them?”

  “You hadn’t?”

  “I wasn’t exactly in a good spot seven-and-a-half years ago.”

  “No, I suppose not. It was all over the news, though. The first boy disappears from a house in the middle of the day. Then another one goes missing and the police go into overdrive because that kid’s dad’s a cop.”

  “Tyler Rhodes, married to Emily.”

  “Yeah, that was it. Didn’t they reckon the first boy was a case of mistaken identity? The target had always been the Rhodes kid? And it was personal?”

  “Exactly.” I looked down at my plate, trying to stop a shudder from creeping up my spine. “It can’t have been Grac
e. I mean, what would that mean? She was in some kind of kidnapping gang or something? I’m sorry, but that’s insane.”

  “Yeah, I agree,” Lisa said. “But you said there were three. Who’s the third boy?”

  “Charlie Abbott. Disappeared November twelfth from Sturbridge in Massachusetts. His mom put him to bed at eight, the dad checked on him after midnight, and when they went to his room the next morning, he was gone.”

  “You think Grace sneaked into the house and took him?”

  “Possibly,” I whispered, clenching my paper napkin in my fist, turning it into a tight ball. “The parents both had rap sheets as long as my arm. Theft, drugs, illegal gun possession. Two of their kids had been taken into care already, and the cops thought they were involved in Charlie’s disappearance, but they categorically denied it.”

  “Sure they did...”

  “What if they were telling the truth? I mean...the kid’s age, the dates, the town—”

  Lisa waved her hands around. “Back up. Didn’t you say they live in Massachusetts?”

  “Yeah. Sturbridge is on the most direct route from Portland to Albany. Lisa...” I could barely bring myself to say the next words. “I...I think Logan’s Charlie Abbott.”

  I’d pulled all the details together the night before, my mind refusing to believe them at first, but it made up stories reaching blockbuster proportions all on its own. Grace and Charlie’s mom were friends. They conspired for her to take the child because the mom was sick, the dad a monster. Or Grace and the dad had been lovers, and this was her revenge for a bad breakup. Perhaps Charlie’s mom and Grace had some other history... On and on it went, my mind becoming a blur of images, converging into a single giant, cinematographic explosion.

  “What did you do, Grace?” I’d whispered last night as I looked at the photograph lying on the floor in the shattered frame. “What’s Logan’s real name?”

  “Josh?” Lisa’s voice pulled me back to the restaurant. “What shall we do next?”

  Thankfully my phone rang so I didn’t have to answer, but I grimaced when I saw it was Logan’s teacher. Before Mr. Shapran had a chance to speak, I said, “Let me guess. There’s been another issue.”

  “Another fight, yes,” Mr. Shapran said. “It got ugly real quick, and when a teacher intervened, Logan punched her.”

  “He did what?”

  “It was an accident, and she’s okay, but this is still serious. The principal wants you to come in. Now, if at all possible.”

  I closed my eyes and exhaled, trying to come up with a polite enough response. It wasn’t Mr. Shapran’s fault, although the reminder didn’t help calm me much. “Alright.”

  “I can’t imagine how stressful this whole situation is for you,” Mr. Shapran continued, then lowered his voice. “You should know the word expulsion has been thrown around.”

  “You can’t expel a seven-year-old!” I said, and Lisa’s eyes widened.

  “I agree and I can’t see it getting to that point,” Mr. Shapran replied quickly. “Suspension, maybe. But Mr. Searle needs you to come in. I can tell him you’re delayed, give you time to collect your thoughts?”

  “There aren’t many to collect. I’ll be right there.” I stood up and Lisa looked at me.

  “Want me to come with you?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll manage. I’ve been through worse, right?”

  She hesitated before whispering, “Don’t do anything stupid, okay? Please?”

  “Like punch the principal?”

  “Like go looking for Charlie Abbott’s family.”

  “I won’t, promise, and thanks again for this.” I broke eye contact and tapped my pocket, ensuring I’d slipped her check in there. If she got a whiff of my plans, she’d wrestle me to the ground before tearing her generosity into a million pieces, but I couldn’t do nothing.

  As I walked to my truck, I thought about what the school’s consequences for Logan might be, figuring that this time, perhaps, things might actually work out in my favor.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I sat opposite Mr. Searle, who was usually a kind and generous principal, one who’d been complimentary about Logan, and his behavior, on many occasions. The way he looked at me now, the overhead light bouncing off his naked skull, his mouth set in a straight line, hands clasped in front of him, praise clearly wasn’t on his agenda.

  “Well, Mr. Andersen,” he said, “it seems we’re having some trouble, doesn’t it?”

  I wondered if talking to adults in the same way he did to his students was an occupational trap every principal fell into. He’d offered me a small wooden chair, automatically seating me lower than him, and when I put my hands in my lap and kept my head slightly bent, it reminded me of the time I’d been caught smoking when I was twelve.

  After I’d been unceremoniously marched into the headmaster’s office by one of the teachers, they’d called Mom, who’d stormed down to the school within six minutes flat. Her voice had been loud, her dressing-down so severe, it became the stuff of legends, creating the “don’t get Andersened” expression that survived in the school’s halls well after we’d left for the States. She’d stopped my pocket money for six months, too, and if that hadn’t been enough, my father, a great believer in old-school techniques, made me smoke one cigarette after the other until I puked all over Mom’s prize geraniums. When I was finished, he’d told me wipe them off with a damp cloth, leaf by leaf, which had made me retch some more.

  Now in Mr. Searle’s office, I shifted in my seat, reminding myself I was the parent this time around.

  “As you’re aware, this isn’t the first incident,” he said. “I understand things have been escalating. We’re lucky our teacher isn’t injured.”

  “I’m very glad she’s okay.”

  “Yes, but I hope you understand I have to suspend Logan.” Mr. Searle held up a hand despite the fact I hadn’t said anything. “I know it may put you in an awkward position, but—”

  “It’s okay,” I said quickly. “I agree. With the suspension, I mean.”

  Mr. Searle’s brow furrowed. “That’s not usually the reaction I get from parents.”

  I shrugged. “I, uh, I’m thinking of taking Logan away for a bit. Give him a break.”

  He let out a snort-laugh. “Good one,” he said before clocking my expression. “Oh, you’re serious? Are you sure that’s a good idea? We find rewarding a child when they get suspended—”

  “It’s not a rewa—”

  “I can’t help but wonder if some stability would be better, Mr. Andersen.”

  I straightened my back, bringing us almost eye to eye. “Suspending him is hardly stable.”

  “Touché.” Mr. Searle paused, drummed his fingertips on his desk. “However, we can’t simply let this go and send Logan on vacation. It would set a dangerous precedent and—”

  “Then give him compassionate leave. Give the kid—and me—a break. He lost his mother, I’ve lost my partner, my job and now this...” The empathy angle was my trump card, and he knew it.

  “There’s not much time left until the end of term,” he said, rubbing his clean-shaven chin. “We’ll suspend Logan for a week. I’ll arrange compassionate leave for the rest. You can correspond with Mr. Shapran about his lessons and finishing any projects or assignments.”

  “Perfectly acceptable,” I said, getting up and shaking Mr. Searle’s hand. “I’ll pick Logan up right now. And please apologize to the teacher on my behalf.”

  “I will, and we’ll be very pleased to welcome Logan back at the start of term,” he said, tightening the invisible noose around my neck that little bit more.

  With what I was about to do, there was no telling where Logan would be in the fall.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “I thought you’d be really, really mad.” Logan sat at the table with Cookie by his feet, occasionally f
eeding her scraps when he thought I wasn’t looking. “You’re not going to shout?”

  I put another scoop of rice on his plate. “No, and I’m sorry I did last time. It was wrong.”

  “It’s okay, Dad, it’s—”

  “No, it really isn’t...” I said. “Do you remember me telling you I lost my mom and dad when I was young?” He nodded. “I know how tough it can be, how angry you must be inside.”

  Logan leaned over to pat Cookie’s head, but didn’t say anything. He’d cried on the way home, bawled his eyes out and fled to his bedroom from where I’d been able to coax him out only by insisting Cookie had to eat, too—she’d get sick if she didn’t.

  “Logan,” I said, pushing my plate away, “ever heard of Massachusetts?”

  “Uh-huh. The Boston terrier is the official state dog.”

  I shook my head. “Where do you get this stuff from?”

  He gave me a duh look. “Books.”

  “Silly me. Well, how about going on a trip there with me?”

  “Are there roller coasters? Or a water park?”

  “I don’t think that’ll work with Cookie. Plus it’ll probably still be too cold, but there might be an indoor one somewhere.”

  Logan pumped his fist up and down and jumped off his seat, heading for the door.

  “Where are you going?” I said.

  “To pack.”

  “Seriously?” I couldn’t help grinning at him. “Are you sure you’re seven, not seventeen? You’ll be bringing your girlfriend next.” Although I’d meant it as a joke, Logan’s face fell, his excitement evaporating.

  “Are you bringing a girlfriend?” he said quietly.

  “What? No. I don’t have a one, I—”

  “But what will happen when you do? Will she be my mom?”

  I got on my knees and pulled Logan close, gently pushing a jumping, barking Cookie away. “Right now it’s you and me, kiddo, and that’s how it’s going to stay.”