“Mom, do we still have Dad’s stuff?”
“Some of it.”
“Could we look through it?”
“Another time, honey.”
I’d been occupied with bills and had barely lifted my eyes. Michael had died three years earlier. Unable to sort his things, I had left them packed away. Nathan stopped asking—until recently.
I brought the receipt downstairs and showed Denise.
“Denise, look.”
“Why would they need woodworking supplies?”
A possibility suddenly occurred to me: Frank, Michael’s father, still lived in the house where Michael had grown up. Behind it stood his workshop.
We hadn’t spoken since Michael’s funeral. Frank accused me of erasing his memory; I told him not to judge my grief. Neither apologized.
I called him twice without an answer, then left a voicemail.
“Frank, Nathan’s missing. If you’ve heard from him, call me immediately.”
***
By eleven, Denise and I had called the police, provided descriptions of both boys, and explained where we’d already looked. At midnight, we sat together at my kitchen table.
