Three Days Missing

by Kimberly Belle

  “So what you told me yesterday, about Jessica and those other girls telling you to switch, that was a lie?”

  It takes a full five seconds for Sammy to nod.

  “Oh, Sammy.”

  My son is a bully. It’s the first time I’ve allowed the words in my brain, the first time I’ve let myself fully acknowledge the possibility, even though if I’m being totally honest, I’ve tried hard not to think it plenty of times. I’ve seen the way he acts around Ethan, heard the way Miss Emma dances around the point without ever saying the word and this confirms it. Sammy is a bully, and it’s up to me and Sam to fix him.

  Sammy’s voice grows defensive. “Dad does it. He said he’d get more trains for the city even though there wasn’t any money. He lies all the time.”

  “That’s different,” Sam says. “Those are campaign promises. They’re things I want to do, not things I guarantee to do.”

  “Then why are they called promises?” Sammy says, and Sam doesn’t answer. He looks at me, and I don’t answer, either. Technically, Sammy’s right. Empty promises aren’t promises, but lies.

  “Anyway, Nana says my energy won’t clear until I say I’m sorry, and I want to but I couldn’t get up on the roof. I tried to tell him a whole bunch of times on the stairs, but he kept running off and now my energy’s all messed up.”

  “What the hell is he talking about?” Sam pops off the chair and begins pacing the edge of the carpet.

  I shush him with a wave of my hand. A little tickle has started up at the back of my mind. Last night, Sammy told Mom to follow some locusts up the stairs.

  “You tried to tell who?”

  “Ethan. But I kept getting killed on the stairs.”

  My heart kicks like Sammy used to in my belly, hard and swift. “The stairs on the video game?”

  Sammy nods. “He was there. He ran right past me on his way to the rooftop.”

  Could it be true? Could Ethan really be sitting in a room somewhere, battling the locusts on a television screen while the police search the North Georgia woods? I try to summon up the handles on the list of Sammy’s friends, try to recall if one of them might have belonged to Ethan, but can’t. They were all so obscure.

  “When? When did you see him?”

  “Yesterday. And Joe said he saw him in the tomb. Remember? You told me.”

  GamerJoeATL’s message whispers through my mind. In the tomb hurry.

  “Liam was gonna help me find the hammer of dawn so I can kill all the locusts and get to the next level. It’s hidden in the grass by the steps, but there’s a troika right there so I can’t get to it. Liam was gonna show me how.”

  “Somebody want to tell me what the hell he’s talking about?”

  I hush Sam, thinking not about Sammy’s words, the tomb or the locusts or the troikas, but the greater picture. That my son might have just found Ethan.

  “Can you show us?”

  KAT

  55 hours, 53 minutes missing

  I get home and go straight to bed. Ethan’s bed. I pull his tattered dinosaur sheets over my face and breathe in a lungful of my son. How long until the fabric stops smelling of him?

  The Xanax I took when I came upstairs is doing its work, dulling my senses and clouding up my thoughts like a pea soup fog, but I take another just in case. The pill dissolves into a bitter mush I swallow with a grimace, waiting for a second rush of calm to hit my bloodstream. I haven’t told Lucas I’m taking them, raiding the leftover bottle the ER doctor pushed in my hand after Andrew’s assault, though part of me suspects Lucas already knows. I see the way he watches me when he thinks I’m not looking, like he used to watch Andrew in the last few years of our marriage. Lucas is keeping tabs, cataloging the clues, watching for warning signs I might do something dangerous. If Ethan doesn’t come home soon, I just might.

  There’s a knock at the door, and Lucas sticks his head in. “Hey, you up?”

  “No. Go away.”

  The door creaks as he steps inside, his socks swishing across the bedroom carpet. I peek around the sheet, and there he is, looming above me. “I made breakfast.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  His gaze lands on the prescription bottle on Ethan’s bedside table. “You have to keep up your strength.”

  “Why?” It comes out dull and lifeless instead of angry and confrontational the way I intended. What do I need my strength for? So that when Mac comes to give me the bad news, I will have enough left for a proper breakdown? To be honest, I’d rather that be the final blow, the last little tragedy that tips me over the edge.

  “You’re right. Better to just waste away in your bed. And why not? Andrew can take care of Ethan just as well as you can.”

  As long as I’ve known Lucas, he’s been brilliant at this, at hurling passive-aggressive snark to manipulate me into seeing things his way. He said something similar the summer I turned sixteen, when my mother was dying of ovarian cancer and I wanted to die with her. Lucas glued himself to my side, carting me to the hospital, the hospice, the funeral home, the graveside. “Now’s your chance,” he whispered as they were lowering her into the ground. “I’ll push you in if you want me to.”

  It got him an elbow to the ribs, but it also got him what he was looking for: a smile.

  Now his words punch through my Xanax haze, and I sigh and sit up in bed. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

  Lucas grins. “I love you, too.” He reaches for my hand and heaves me out of bed.

  Downstairs, Lucas shoos me to the table and prepares the plates. He piles them high with more food than I could ever eat in one sitting, eggs and bacon and pancakes, which he tops with thick tabs of butter and too much syrup. I watch him move around the tiny space, bumping up against the counter like a giant trapped in a dollhouse, and my eyes prick with tears. If Ethan doesn’t come home, if I have to live the rest of my life in this house without him, I want Lucas to never leave.

  He’s pouring the last of the milk when my phone rings.

  Not bad news, I tell myself. Mac promised.

  Still.

  I stare at the screen and a vibration starts up somewhere deep inside my body, spreading across my skin like a tuning fork. My brain fills with equal parts hope and terror.

  And then a name fills the screen: Andrew Maddox.

  An instant sense of relief, pickled with dread. Andrew is not supposed to be calling, and he wouldn’t risk defying the restraining order unless he had something important to say. I swipe a shaky thumb across the screen.

  “Tell Captain Douchebag I’m calling the cops,” Lucas says, settling my plate onto the table with a clunk. “The restraining order applies to phone calls, too, asshole.”

  I shush him with a palm. “Andrew? What’s wrong?”

  Whatever Andrew says is lost in Lucas’s booming voice. He cups his hands around his mouth and points his face toward the phone. “The cops are on their way, dickweed.”

  “Lucas, stop. I can’t deal with this on top of everything else, okay? Just stop.” I push past him for the stairs, taking them by twos and racing to my room. “Andrew, where are you? What’s wrong?”

  “I see Lucas hasn’t changed.”

  I bristle at his abrasive words, the way his tone is filled with accusation and blame. “Is this why you called, to complain about Lucas?”

  “No, but you can tell him not to bother calling the cops. I spent all night at the station, and one of them has been following me ever since, and he hasn’t been the least bit subtle about it. By now that guy knows everything about me, all the way down to my preferred gas station and the label on the back of my jeans.”

  I sink onto my bed. “Where were you?” I know where he was; I just want to hear him say it.

  “On vacation. Out of the country. When I heard about Ethan, I came back.”

  His answer is typ
ical Andrew. No apologies, no explanations. Andrew has never apologized for what he did. Not for the name-calling, not for the abuse, not for anything. Nothing is ever his fault.

  “Why are you calling me?”

  “Because the police won’t tell me anything, and I didn’t know what else to do. I’m going crazy out here, Kat. Seriously losing my mind.”

  I blink around the messy room, taking in the crooked lampshade, the stack of books on my nightstand that has toppled over onto the floor, the dark stain on the rug from where Ethan knocked over my glass of red wine. I remember being so angry at the time, fuming at yet another chore for me to tackle when I already had more than I could handle. I close my eyes and wish I could go back; there’s so much I would do differently, starting with that moment.

  “Please, Kat.” A desperate note has crept into Andrew’s voice, as sincere as I’ve ever heard it. “Whatever you think of me, whatever mess we’ve made of us, I’m still Ethan’s father.”

  But one thing I would never change is the night Andrew and I made Ethan. Regardless of everything that came after, all the screams and the fights and the tears, Andrew is right about one thing: he’s still Ethan’s father.

  “They’re searching a lake, Andrew. A lake. Mac said something about the cabins and houses, but all I could think is all the water they surround. Ethan can barely make it across a swimming pool, much less a giant body of water known for sucking dozens of kids down every summer. Every time I close my eyes, I see him bobbing with all those other bodies around the bottom.”

  It’s almost a relief to say the words out loud. The worry has been ricocheting around my head, growing faster and louder and more insistent with each passing second, and Lucas wouldn’t want to hear it. Andrew is the only person I talk to who will understand, who as soon as I said the word lake will be thinking the exact same thing.

  But Andrew is still hung up on another word. “Who’s Mac?”

  I wince. “Detective Macintosh. He’s the one who showed up at my door when Ethan went missing. He’s giving me regular updates.”

  I brace for the barrage that always used to come whenever a male name that was not Ethan’s or Andrew’s crossed my lips. All those years we were married, Andrew accused every man who looked my way of wanting me, and me of drawing their attention on purpose. Projection is the worst kind of head-fuckery, this sneaky practice of accusing me of the very thing he was doing himself, and in a way that made me think I was the problem, not his ridiculous jealousy. Six months away from Andrew and my skills are already rusty. Even though Andrew lost any claim the minute he raised his hand to me, even though Mac has shown me nothing but professionalism and kindness, I still feel like I did something wrong. I still feel guilty for even mentioning another man’s name.

  But Andrew surprises me by mowing right over my answer. “Jesus, a lake?” He blows out a long, shaky breath. “Why didn’t anybody tell me?”

  There are so many things I could say here. Because your default stance is combative. Because you’re a suspect. I press my lips together and say nothing at all.

  “But they’re searching around the lake, right? Not in it. I mean, they don’t have any reason to think...” His words fade into that high-pitched squeak men’s voices sometimes get when they’re trying to pinch back tears. He pauses to get a hold of himself, then exhales into the phone, a long and loaded sigh. “Listen, I have something for you. Something Ethan made the last time he was at my house. With him...missing, I thought it would be nice for you to have. Will Lucas tackle me if I leave it on your front doorstep?”

  “Are you outside?”

  “Only if Lucas isn’t listening,” he jokes, but it falls flat. We both know if Andrew walked up my front walkway, Lucas would tackle him. He’s already got half the DeKalb police force on speed dial, and his shouted threats through the phone were not empty ones. Andrew can’t come near the house, but whatever he has for me, I want it desperately.

  A car motor starts on the other end of the line, followed by a rustling like he’s putting it in gear.

  I push off the bed, looking around the room for my shoes. “Can you put it in the mailbox?”

  “I just did. Bye, Kat. Talk to you soon.”

  STEF

  56 hours, 31 minutes missing

  I reattach the Xbox to the dangling wires under Sammy’s TV, fire it up and pass Sammy the controller.

  “First I gotta find the hammer of dawn and kill all the troikas.” He delivers his message with solemnity, a remarkable recovery since his crying jag downstairs. He settles onto his gaming chair and readies for battle, facing the screen with eyes that are red and puffy, but with shoulders that have perked up from the attention. “It’ll take me a minute to get there.”

  Sam sits beside me on the bed, his leg bouncing like a jackhammer, jiggling my body on the mattress. Behind us, Mom hovers by the door.

  “Get where?” Sam’s voice is testy, his expression telling me he’s still not sure this isn’t some ploy of Sammy’s to get himself out of trouble, and honestly, neither am I. What are the chances the gamertag Sammy is trying to make contact with is actually Ethan?

  “To the tomb,” Sammy says.

  “That’s where Joe said he saw Ethan,” I explain.

  “Isn’t there a way to see if he’s online before you start playing?” Sam asks, ever the pragmatic politician. Why waste time and effort if there’s a faster, easier way? Especially now, when every second counts.

  The Xbox Live logo pops up on the screen, and Sammy logs in. “I guess I could check my friends list.”

  “I thought you and Ethan weren’t friends,” I say.

  “Not all Xbox friends are really friends. They’re just people you play games with.” Sammy navigates to a screen with a long list of handles.

  Mom moves closer, coming to a stand right behind Ethan. Her eyes are closed, both hands facing outward and her lips move in silent prayer. Energy healing from afar, and for once, it doesn’t fire up my last nerve. If she can make some kind of subconscious contact with Ethan, if she can ease some of his fear and channel him some of her strength, then by all means, go for it.

  “He’s online!” Sammy pops out of his chair and rushes the screen, jumping up to point at a handle toward the top. MadIQ158.

  My heart gives an excited kick, and I swat a hand in Sam’s direction. “Call the police.”

  But Sam is one step ahead of me, his cell already pressed to an ear, the chief of police already on speed dial.

  The screen changes to dozens of heavily armed figures moving through a postapocalyptic landscape. “Which one is Ethan?”

  “He’s gonna be up on the roof. I just gotta find the hammer and kill all these locusts before I can get there. Hang on.”

  I grip the edge of the mattress and watch my son dodge strange, hostile creatures through a dark and dystopian world while Sam relays our discovery to Chief Phillips. The sound of the special effects and Sam’s voice are muffled by the roaring of blood in my ears.

  “Ethan’s force is strong,” Mom says, her eyes still closed, and I don’t swallow down the swell of hope I feel at her words. After all, she was right about Sammy; maybe she’s right about Ethan, too. “I’m getting lots of conflicting emotions but no physical pain.”

  Sammy’s soldier locates the weapon in the grass, which looks more like a futuristic laser and which vaporizes everything in his path. Once he clears the way, he lumbers up a stone staircase to emerge in a labyrinth of dark, confined rooms.

  “We’re at the rooftop,” he says, his voice high and excited. “Start looking for MadIQ158.”

  The rooftop is more like a dungeon, a web of low-slung spaces connected by a central corridor and expanse of open sky. There are creatures, both human and not-so-human everywhere. Sammy stays one step ahead of them, swinging left then right then left again, killing them with massive explosions. The televi
sion speakers erupt in a chorus of screeches and gunfire.

  I lean in and hold my breath. There’s too much to look at—people and aliens and exploding body parts. It’s like my brain came down with ADD. I can’t concentrate on just one.

  Suddenly, Sammy leaps out of his chair. “There he is! I told you. He’s right there. Look.” He points to a heavily armed man crouching at the lower edge of the screen, currently engaged in a firefight with an otherworldly enemy. Tiny letters float above his head: MadIQ158.

  “How do you know it’s him?” Mom says from beside me, “and not somebody who happens to have the same nickname?”

  “Two people can’t have the same gamertag.” Sammy’s answer has an unmistakable undertone of duh. “If somebody’s already taken it, you gotta choose another.”

  “Can you talk to him?” I say, referring to Ethan. “Ask him where he is, if he’s okay?”

  “Sure. I can send him a message.”

  “Do it,” Sam says, and I grip his arm, skin and muscle tight with strain. If this is true, if this is really Ethan on the screen, then surely the police can track him. Surely an Xbox has a specific online address, just like a computer. Surely there must be some way.

  Sammy navigates to a different screen and presses the button for a new message. “What should I say?”

  “Ask him where he is,” Sam says. “Who he’s with. Tell him to give us as many details as possible so we can find him.”

  Sammy gets started on a message, but there’s no keyboard and progress is slow. Sam loses patience before the second word, lunges off the bed and snatches the controller from his son’s hands.

  Sam isn’t much faster than his son in the messaging department. Without a keyboard, he has to navigate the alphabet with only a couple of buttons, scrolling up and down and side to side to enter the necessary letters. He’s been going at it for more than a minute, but so far, all he’s got is Where r u? U ok? He hits Enter, then immediately begins on the next message, his thumbs punching at the joystick.