Chapter 1: Eight Weekends of Lies
“Laura, when is my boy coming home? He’s been at your place every single weekend!””
Denise’s voice trembled through the phone, and for a moment, I honestly thought she was joking.
“Nathan’s been staying with you since yesterday,” I replied.
“He told me he was spending the weekend with Cole.””
Silence.
Then Denise whispered, “Laura, I haven’t seen your son in weeks.””
My coffee slipped from my fingers.
The mug struck the kitchen counter, splashing dark liquid across the surface, but I barely noticed.
“What do you mean you haven’t seen him?””
“I mean Cole hasn’t been here. Not for weeks.””
I gripped the phone harder.
“That’s impossible. Nathan leaves every Friday afternoon with his overnight bag. He says they’re watching movies, ordering pizza, doing whatever sixteen-year-old boys do.””
“Cole says exactly the same thing about Nathan.””
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Our sons had been best friends since kindergarten.
They were both sixteen now, inseparable for more than a decade, the kind of boys teachers paired together automatically and parents trusted without thinking twice.
For eight weekends, Nathan had supposedly slept at Cole’s house.
For eight weekends, Cole had supposedly slept at ours.
Every Friday, one boy kissed his mother goodbye and promised to be home Sunday.
Every Sunday, both boys returned separately, tired and hungry, with perfectly ordinary explanations for their exhaustion.
And somehow, neither mother had noticed that something was terribly wrong.
“When did you last actually see Nathan?”” I asked.
“Early August. I thought he was staying with you after that.””
“Cole?””
“Same.””
I looked at the calendar hanging beside the refrigerator.
Eight weekends.
Sixteen nights.
Possibly more.
My son had been disappearing for two months, and I had been congratulating myself on raising an independent teenager.
“Denise, call Cole again.””
“I already have.””
“Then call him again.””
She did.
Voicemail.
I called Nathan.
Voicemail.
Again.
Nothing.
My fingers shook as I opened our message thread.
His last text sat on the screen, casual and familiar.
“Mom, Cole and I grabbed pizza. Don’t wait up. Love you.””
I had answered with a heart.
A heart.
I stared at the tiny symbol as though it belonged to someone else's life.
Then I typed, “Nathan, I know you’re not at Cole’s. Call me right now.””
The message showed as delivered.
Not read.
“Laura?”” Denise said quietly.
“What if something has happened to them?””
“Don't say that.””
But the thought had already entered my mind, and I couldn't force it out.
What if they were hurt?
What if they had been threatened?
What if they had gotten involved with someone dangerous and were too frightened to tell us?
Or what if we had missed something much worse?
I called every parent whose number I had.
One mother said she hadn't seen either boy.
Another remembered Nathan buying a soda at a convenience store three weeks earlier but had no idea where he went afterward.
A third promised to ask her son, then called back ten minutes later to say he knew nothing.
Denise drove through the neighborhoods where teenagers gathered.
The basketball courts were empty.
The shopping center parking lot was nearly deserted.
The fast-food places were closing.
No Nathan.
No Cole.
By midnight, Denise was sitting at my kitchen table, her coat still on, both hands wrapped around her phone.
Neither of us had eaten.
Every time headlights swept across the window, we looked up.
Every time a car passed without stopping, the silence became heavier.
“Has Nathan been acting strange?”” Denise asked.
I opened my mouth to say no.
Then I remembered the showers.
Every Sunday, Nathan came home and went straight upstairs to scrub himself clean.
Sometimes he stood under the water for nearly an hour.
I remembered the way he flinched when I touched his shoulder unexpectedly.
The dark circles beneath his eyes.
The clothes he hurried into the washing machine before I could ask about them.
The way he stopped talking about what he and Cole had done together.
When I asked whether they'd gone to the movies, he said yes.
When I asked which movie, he shrugged.
When I asked about pizza, he said he couldn't remember what they'd ordered.
I had blamed everything on adolescence.
Sixteen-year-old boys wanted privacy.
Sixteen-year-old boys became moody.
Sixteen-year-old boys didn't always tell their mothers everything.
“I just thought he was growing up,” I admitted.
Denise stared at me.
“So did I.””
The words hung between us.
At two in the morning, I checked Nathan’s bedroom.
His bed was made.
His school backpack sat against the desk.
A half-finished homework assignment lay beside his laptop.
Everything looked normal.
That was the frightening part.
There was no obvious sign of trouble, no broken window, no mysterious note, nothing that explained where my child had gone.
I sat on the edge of his bed and pressed my hands against my face.
Somewhere, my son was spending his nights away from home.
And I didn't even know whether he was safe.
At three, Denise began crying silently.
At three-thirty, I called Nathan again.
Voicemail.
At four, we finally admitted we might need to call the police.
I was reaching for my phone when something scraped against the front door.
A key.
Someone was trying to get inside.
I stood so quickly that my chair toppled backward.
The lock turned.
The door opened.
May you like
And my sixteen-year-old son stepped into the hallway.
Alone.
