Chapter 3: The Name He Was Afraid to Say
For several seconds, I couldn't make sense of the sentence.
“Where is Cole?”” Denise demanded.
Nathan stared at the blanket covering his knees.
“Where is my son?””
“Denise,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
But she was already moving toward him.
“Nathan, look at me. Is Cole hurt? Is someone keeping him somewhere? Please tell me!””
Nathan recoiled against the chair.
“Don't ask me that.””
Denise stopped as though she had hit an invisible wall.
I had known her for nearly eleven years.
I had watched her bring birthday cakes to our house, sit through school performances, and laugh with Nathan and Cole as they raced around our back garden.
I had never seen her look so frightened.
“Sweetheart,” she said, her voice breaking, “I just need to know if he's alive.””
Nathan's face crumpled.
“He's alive.””
Denise made a sound somewhere between a sob and a gasp.
She gripped the edge of the kitchen table to steady herself.
“Then tell me where he is.””
“I can't.””
“Why not?””
Nathan looked at his hands.
“Because he'll pay for it.””
The kitchen went silent.
I felt something cold spread through my chest.
“Who will make him pay?”” I asked.
Nathan didn't respond.
“Is someone threatening you?””
His shoulders rose and fell beneath the blanket.
“Mom, please.””
“Did someone hurt you?””
He pressed his lips together.
I looked at his injured fingers again.
The filthy bandages.
The split skin.
The bruises beginning to darken around his wrists.
I wanted to believe there was a simple explanation.
A workplace accident.
A stupid decision.
Some terrible teenage mistake that could be corrected with a phone call and a trip to the hospital.
But nothing about Nathan's expression suggested a mistake.
He looked like someone who had been living with a secret so frightening that telling it aloud seemed more dangerous than enduring it.
I called emergency medical services despite his protests.
I told the dispatcher that my sixteen-year-old son had returned home exhausted, shivering, and injured, and that I was worried he might be in danger.
When I mentioned the possibility that another teenager was missing, the dispatcher asked for both boys' full names and last known locations.
Nathan went rigid when he heard me answer.
“Mom, you promised.””
“I didn't promise anything.””
“You said you wouldn't—”
“I said I would help you.””
His eyes filled again.
“You don't understand.””
“Then help me understand.””
He shook his head.
For a moment, I thought he might tell us everything.
Instead, he leaned forward and buried his face in his hands.
“I didn't mean for it to happen.””
I sat beside him.
“What didn't you mean?””
He dragged in a ragged breath.
“The first weekend.””
I glanced at Denise.
“What happened the first weekend?””
Nathan rubbed his face.
“Cole said it would only be one night.””
“One night where?””
He stared at me as though the answer were obvious.
“At the place.””
“What place?””
His mouth opened.
Then closed.
A vehicle passed outside, its headlights sliding across the kitchen windows.
Nathan shot to his feet.
“Turn off the lights!””
I stared at him.
“What?””
“Mom, turn them off!””
He grabbed the edge of the table, nearly knocking over Denise's untouched coffee.
I switched off the kitchen light.
The room fell into darkness.
Nathan stood beside the window, breathing rapidly, watching the street through a narrow gap in the curtains.
Denise moved toward him.
“Did you see someone?””
He didn't answer.
“Is someone following you?””
His silence was enough to frighten us both.
The vehicle continued down the road.
Its engine faded.
Nathan remained motionless for several seconds before his shoulders finally relaxed.
I turned the light back on.
He looked ashamed.
“I'm sorry.””
“Stop apologizing,” I said.
“You're home.””
He shook his head.
“Not really.””
I didn't understand.
Then he looked at the front door again.
“It's not over.””
Those words settled over the kitchen like a threat.
When the paramedics arrived, Nathan resisted their attempts to examine his hands.
He kept asking whether they were going to take him somewhere.
He asked whether they would contact the police.
He asked whether anyone had called his school.
Every question made me more certain that the past two months had involved something far beyond ordinary teenage rebellion.
Eventually, he allowed them to check his injuries.
They told me he needed further medical evaluation and careful assessment for dehydration and exhaustion.
As they helped him stand, his wet sleeve slipped back from his wrist.
I saw a dark, narrow mark encircling it.
Not a scrape.
Not the kind of mark a boy gets falling off a bicycle.
I reached toward it.
Nathan pulled his arm away.
“Don't.””
His voice was so frightened that I stopped immediately.
Denise stood near the doorway, clutching her phone.
“I'm going to find Cole,” she said.
Nathan looked up sharply.
“No!””
She froze.
“You can't go looking for him.””
“Why?””
“Because they'll know.””
“Who will know?””
Nathan stared at her.
His eyes moved to me.
For one fleeting second, I thought he was about to say a name.
A real name.
The person responsible for the injuries, the disappearances, the lies that had swallowed eight weekends of our lives.
Then the paramedic asked Nathan another question, and he turned away.
I followed him toward the door.
“Son, I need you to answer one thing before you leave.””
He stopped.
“Did you and Cole go to that place together?””
His face went completely still.
Then he nodded.
“Every weekend?””
Another nod.
“Both of you?””
He looked at me with exhausted, bloodshot eyes.
“Not always.””
I felt my stomach twist.
“What does that mean?””
Nathan swallowed hard.
“The first few times, we were together.””
“And afterward?””
He looked toward Denise.
“Afterward, they started separating us.””
Denise gripped the doorframe.
“Separating you for what?””
Nathan's lips trembled.
He looked like he was fighting a battle inside himself, weighing the danger of speaking against the terror of remaining silent.
Finally, he whispered, “They said we owed them.””
“Owed them what?”” I asked.
He didn't answer.
The paramedics waited beside the open door.
Nathan stepped toward them, then stopped and turned back to me.
“Mom?””
“Yes?””
“If someone calls you tomorrow and says I'm lying, don't believe them.””
My heart seemed to stop.
“Who would say that?””
He shook his head.
“And if they tell you Cole ran away, don't believe that either.””
Denise began to cry again.
Nathan looked at her, and the guilt in his face was almost unbearable.
“I'm sorry,” he whispered.
Then he was gone, taken for medical care while I stood in my doorway watching the emergency vehicle disappear into the darkness.
Eight weekends.
Sixteen-year-old boys.
Two mothers who had believed their children were safe.
And a place neither of us could name.
I returned to the kitchen to collect Nathan's wet clothes from the chair.
Something small fell from the pocket of his sweatshirt and struck the floor.
A folded piece of paper.
I picked it up with shaking fingers.
The paper was damp, its edges stained with grime.
Inside was a handwritten address, followed by a date and a list of times.
At the bottom, someone had written a sentence in thick black ink.
*NEXT WEEKEND: COLE GOES ALONE.*
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
May you like
Because beneath that sentence was another line, written in Nathan's unmistakable handwriting.
*IF WE TELL OUR MOTHERS, THEY'LL NEVER LET US LEAVE.*`}</text>
