Chapter 11 - The Empty Bedroom
For a moment, the world stopped.
I couldn't hear Charlotte.
Couldn't hear Samuel.
Couldn't even hear my own breathing.
The only thing I understood was that my son had disappeared again.
"No."
My voice sounded strange.
Too small.
"Not again."
Charlotte knelt in front of me.
"Eleanor, listen to me."
"Where is he?"
"The police are there."
"Where is my son?"
"We're finding out."
I tried to stand.
My legs buckled beneath me.
Charlotte caught my shoulders before I fell.
I hated the weakness.
Hated the wheelchair.
Hated the seven years of fear that rushed back into me at the worst possible moment.
"Get me to Connecticut."
"We will."
"Now."
Samuel was already calling the investigator.
By the time we reached Margaret's farmhouse, the driveway was filled with emergency vehicles.
Yellow tape stretched across the front porch.
A state police detective met us near the gate.
His name was Michael Hayes.
He looked exhausted.
But he didn't treat me like a fragile woman who needed to be sent away.
"Mrs. Whitmore, I understand you have information relevant to the boy's identity."
"He's my son."
"We're taking that possibility seriously."
"Where is he?"
"We're working to establish the sequence of events."
Margaret appeared at the front door.
Her face was swollen from crying.
When she saw me, she collapsed against the railing.
"I'm sorry."
I wanted to hate her.
I wanted to blame someone.
Anyone.
Instead, I looked at the empty window upstairs.
"Tell me what happened."
Margaret wiped her face.
"I went to pick up groceries. My neighbor was supposed to stay with Ethan."
"Did she?"
"Yes. But she received a call that her husband had been injured."
"Was he?"
"No."
I looked at Detective Hayes.
"A false emergency?"
"That's what we're investigating."
Margaret continued.
"She left after someone claiming to be from a home-care service arrived to take over. She thought I'd arranged it."
"Did you?"
"No."
I felt sick.
"When I got home, the front door was unlocked. Ethan's shoes were gone."
"His shoes?"
Margaret nodded.
"And his red scarf."
I stared at her.
"Why does that matter?"
"Because he never leaves without it."
Her voice broke.
"He thinks it makes him brave."
I covered my mouth.
Upstairs, Ethan's bedroom looked exactly as I'd imagined a seven-year-old boy's room might look.
Blue walls.
Airplane posters.
A bookshelf filled with adventure stories.
A wooden train beneath the bed.
On his desk sat a half-finished drawing.
A woman stood beside a small airplane.
Above her head, in uneven letters, he'd written:
MY REAL MOM?
My knees trembled.
I reached for the paper.
Margaret began crying behind me.
"He drew that yesterday."
I stared at the question mark.
"He knew?"
"He knew there was a possibility his birth mother was alive."
"Did you tell him my name?"
"Not yet."
I touched the drawing.
He'd imagined me standing.
Smiling.
Waiting beside an airplane.
He didn't know what I looked like.
He didn't know about my wheelchair.
But somewhere in his heart, he had imagined that I might come for him.
And now he was gone.
Detective Hayes stepped into the room.
"Mrs. Whitmore, I need to ask you something."
I turned.
"Does the name Peter Lawson mean anything to you?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"He drove my car the night of my accident."
"Do you believe he's alive?"
"I have a photograph."
The detective nodded.
"We're reviewing it."
"Why?"
He hesitated.
"Because our investigators found something outside the house."
He led us downstairs.
Near the back steps, an officer held an evidence bag.
Inside was a metal button.
Dark blue.
Stamped with a small silver emblem.
I recognized it.
Northbridge Consulting.
The same emblem I'd seen on the jackets worn by Richard's security contractors.
I looked at Samuel.
"Richard."
The detective raised a hand.
"We're not drawing conclusions yet."
"Someone took my child."
"We know."
"Someone connected to my husband's company left that button."
"We'll investigate the connection."
I stared at him.
"Then please investigate quickly."
He met my eyes.
"We are."
For the first time that day, I believed somebody might actually help.
By midnight, investigators had traced a van seen leaving the area shortly after the disappearance.
It had traveled south.
Then disappeared from traffic cameras near an industrial district.
Samuel's investigator identified a warehouse owned by a Northbridge subsidiary.
Police obtained the necessary authority to search it.
Nothing.
No Ethan.
No Peter.
Only an abandoned office, a torn map, and several discarded food wrappers.
Then one officer discovered a small red thread caught in the edge of a wooden crate.
Margaret recognized the material.
Ethan's scarf.
I almost stopped breathing.
But Samuel noticed something the police had initially overlooked.
A child's drawing had been taped beneath the crate.
It showed three stick figures.
A tall man.
A small boy.
And a woman in a wheelchair.
Beneath the drawing, a message had been printed in capital letters.
I KNOW WHO MY MOM IS.
Charlotte stared at it.
"Did Ethan write this?"
Margaret nodded.
"That's his handwriting."
I reached toward the drawing.
Then stopped.
Because a second message had been written on the back.
May you like
This one was meant for the people searching for him.
THE MAN WITH THE SCAR SAID HE'S TAKING ME TO THE PLACE WHERE MY MOM GOT HURT.
