I watched them drive away, that familiar knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach. Something about Gertrude had always unsettled me, though I could never articulate exactly what. Maybe it was the way she sometimes looked at Ethan—not like a grandmother seeing her grandson, but like someone appraising property.
I tried to focus on work, reviewing footage for my latest project about corruption in the foster care system. But I couldn’t concentrate.
At one-thirty, I texted Candace: Everything okay?
No response.
At two-fifteen, I called the orthopedic office. “Hi, this is Henry Richardson. My son Ethan had a two o’clock appointment with Dr. Morrison. Can you confirm he checked in?”
The receptionist put me on hold. When she returned, her voice had changed.
“Sir, I don’t see any check-in for Ethan Richardson today. Are you certain the appointment was scheduled for today?”
My blood went cold. “Yes. His grandmother was bringing him. Gertrude Sims.”
“Let me check… No, sir. No one by that name has checked in either. Would you like to reschedule?”
I hung up without answering and immediately called Gertrude. Straight to voicemail.
I called Candace. Voicemail.
I called Gertrude’s house. Nothing.
By four o’clock, I was pacing our living room, calling every number I had. Her country club. Her bridge partner. Her attorney. No one had seen her. The hospital called me back, concern evident in the receptionist’s voice.
“Mr. Richardson, your son never arrived. Have you considered filing a report?”
“They’ve only been gone six hours,” I said, trying to sound rational. “She probably just took him somewhere.”
But even as I said it, I didn’t believe it.
When Candace finally walked through the door at seven-thirty, she had shopping bags in her hands and not a trace of worry on her face.
“Where the hell is Ethan?” I demanded.
She looked at me like I was insane. “With Mom, obviously. Why are you freaking out?”
“He never made it to his appointment. I’ve been calling you for hours.”
“My phone died.” She set down her bags. “I’m sure Mom just took him for ice cream or something. You know how she spoils him.”
“Candace, the hospital called me at four o’clock. He never arrived. I’ve called your mother sixty-three times. She’s not answering.”
For the first time, something flickered across her face. Not worry—annoyance.
“Henry, you’re being paranoid. Mom probably wanted to spend time with him. She’ll bring him back when she’s ready.”
“When she’s ready?” I felt like I was losing my mind. “Our six-year-old son has been missing for nine hours and you’re acting like this is normal.”
“He’s not missing. He’s with my mother.” Her voice turned cold. “I’m going to take a bath. When they get back, try not to make a scene. Mom doesn’t appreciate your dramatics.”
She left me standing there, hands shaking with a mixture of rage and fear.
I called the police at midnight. They took a report but made it clear they couldn’t do much. No evidence of foul play. Family members took children places all the time.
“If he’s not back by morning, call us again,” the officer said.
I sat in the dark living room all night, phone in my hand, while Candace slept peacefully upstairs.
At three forty-seven in the morning, I heard the back door creak open.
I was on my feet instantly, flipping on the kitchen light.
Ethan stood in the doorway, and my entire world tilted sideways.
His hair—his beautiful dark hair that fell across his forehead—was completely gone. Shaved down to pale skin. Dried blood crusted around his left ear and down his neck. He wore clothes I’d never seen before: a gray sweatshirt and black pants, both several sizes too large.
But what made my heart stop was his eyes. They were empty. Hollow. Like someone had reached inside my son and scooped out everything that made him Ethan.
“Buddy,” I whispered, dropping to my knees. “What happened? Where’s Grandma?”
He looked at me with those dead eyes and said in a flat, mechanical voice: “Grandma made me promise not to tell you where we went.”
“It’s okay,” I said, pulling him into my arms. He was stiff, unresponsive. “You can tell Daddy anything.”
“I promised,” he repeated. “She said you’d try to take me away if I told. She said I have to be a good boy.”
My hands were shaking as I examined him. No obvious injuries except whatever had caused the blood near his ear. Then I checked his arm—the one that had been hurt—and pushed up the sleeve.
There, on the inside of his forearm, was a fresh tattoo. Still red and inflamed.
A number: 2847.
I stopped breathing.
