by R. A. Casey
When I Find You
R.A. Casey
RyanCaseyBooks.com
Contents
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Part II
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Part III
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Part IV
Chapter 60
The End
Part One
Chapter One
I think about my life in two distinct segments.
The days before Charlie went missing, and the days after he went missing.
I remember it well. Too well. Freddie tells me it’s not good for me to keep on revisiting it all in the detail I do. Even my therapist used to say to me I’m somewhat obsessive about the details.
But how can’t I be obsessive about the details?
My six-year-old son went missing in the middle of the day. In my care.
Nobody saw him disappear.
Nobody saw a thing.
How could I not be obsessive?
I remember how warm it was, for a start. The middle of summer. July 17th, in fact. There was an event on at Charlie’s school, Ashworth’s in Broughton. The summer fete. Always happened every year. Barbecues, bouncy castles, organised water fights, and a big local band on in the afternoon to round off the day, a moment the kids always went wild for. It had everything. The whole lot.
I used to walk past there on those warm summer days before Charlie was even born. I’d stand at the gates of the school, and I’d smile. Smile as I listened to the children’s laughter. Smile as I felt the warm sun beating down against my skin. Smile as I pictured myself pushing a pram with Charlie inside it, or walking through the fete with him, his hand in mine, the stickiness of melted ice cream between his fingers against my palm.
Or watching him play football from the side of the field. Dribbling like Messi. Charging forward, scoring a goal. All his friends lifting him up and cheering, a smile on his face. And pride inside me.
The thought of a life I hadn’t even lived yet. And yet it felt true to me, even then. The anticipation of having a child alone was like living it and experiencing it for real.
I’d always wanted a child. A son in particular. Not sure why. I’d always got on better with boys, and obviously, you hear all the rumours about girls being more difficult. And I suppose from my parents’ perspective, I wasn’t exactly the easiest of kids either. Not exactly the most… well. Cooperative, let’s say.
So something always drew me to have a little boy. A feeling that it was just the way it was meant to be. A feeling that it was just… right.
I think about the first time I ever saw Charlie, and I feel a lump swelling in my throat.
His little crying eyes staring up at me in that summer warmth.
But back to the day now. July 17th. The day he went missing. The day my life changed, forever.
Walking through the school fete with him.
Hearing the laughter of the children all around us.
The sound of joyous music from the carnival games.
The smiles on everybody’s faces.
The smell of meat cooking somewhere behind the school. The meat from a barbecue.
But the thing I remember more than anything as I walked through that playground was how hot it was.
And how off Charlie seemed.
“You okay, young man?”
He had his head down, but his beauty always filled me with warmth. His short dark hair. His tanned, olive skin. His yellow Brazil football T-shirt and his white shorts, which were still mucky from football with Gregg, his dad.
And I’ll never forget the way he didn’t look up at me this time, with those brown eyes. With his usual smile. He was going to be a heartthrob when he was older, that was for sure. Destined to break a few hearts along the way.
“Hey,” I said. “Speaking to you, buddy. You okay?”
He glanced up at me then. Looked at me, just for a second. And then he nodded. But it was pretty much the least convincing nod I’d ever seen.
“You sure? You don’t look like you’re so happy. Something bothering you?”
He rubbed the back of his head. Moved his fingers through that short dark hair. “It’s just…”
“Just what?”
He sighed. Shook his head. “It’s nothing.”
“You can talk to me, you know? If something’s bothering you. Is there something wrong with your friends? Alan being mean to you again?”
“It’s not Alan. Alan’s fine.”
“Then what’s—”
“It’s nothing, okay?”
I never saw Charlie angry. Never saw him mad.
So seeing him staring up at me like that… that’s the first sign I had that something wasn’t right.
Something wasn’t right at all.
I stood there. Looked at him, the warmth of the sun covering us. The sound of laughing children all around us. A tombola raffle machine rattling just up ahead. A kid holding on to a set of kitchen scales she’d won, clearly just some a teacher found surplus to requirements.
And yet still, the kid looked happy. Bemused but happy.
Such a beautiful day.
A beautiful happy day.
I often think back to that moment. The moment where Charlie told me he was okay. Told me it was nothing. Snapped at me.
I often wonder if I’d asked him, pushed him a little more, if maybe something would’ve worked out differently.
If it had anything to do with anything at all.
Freddie says it didn’t. Gregg, my now ex-husband, said it didn’t. Everyone says it didn’t.
But in my mind, there was something in Charlie’s voice that day.
There was something in his eyes.
There was a question he wanted me to ask him. Like a missing piece of a puzzle, he wanted me to find.
And I didn’t even bother to look.
I remember it so well.
The way I looked into his beautiful brown eyes. Smiled. “Come on, little man. Fancy a burger?”
He opened his mouth. Looked like he was going to say something.
And then he closed it, and my little smiley prince was back.
“Sure,” he said.
We walked together, hand in hand, towards the burger stand.
Th
e maize fields in the background standing tall.
And a feeling inside me that it was going to be a good day.
I remember walking to get the burger right before we headed over to the stage to watch the band.
The worst part of the whole memory.
The part of the memory that fills me with fear. With dread.
Because the memory of the stage, the memory of the band, is the memory of the last time I ever held my little prince’s hand.
The memory of letting go.
The memory of losing Charlie.
Chapter Two
PRESENT DAY: THREE YEARS LATER
Moving home is supposed to be a happy day, but I can’t help feeling a little bit sad seeing the moving van unloading everything in front of me and Freddie’s new home.
“Well?” Freddie says. “What d’you think, Sarah? Looks even nicer in the sun, huh?”
I look out of Freddie’s Ford Transit van window, and I want to feel excited. It’s such a beautiful neighbourhood, after all. And Freddie’s right. It looks even more beautiful in the sun. A semi-detached house on the outskirts of a new development in a place called Cottam, just outside Preston. 19 Fairworth Avenue. Not one of the shitty new builds—a robust old house, and one of the few remaining around here in this jungle of new houses. Needs a bit of work doing, some of it structural, but Freddie is handy like that, so it’s right up his street.
It used to be a pretty rural area back in the day. All fields. All clicky residents. But naturally, the need for new homes took over the needs of the clicky residents for their “green spaces.”
And nowadays, it is something of a suburban metropolis.
But mine and Freddie’s place is in a really nice spot, the last semi on a row of five. There are no houses across the road, just a quiet street and then some rare green space. Directly in front of the houses, there’s a little pond area where ducks float. And while it’s all admittedly a little artificial, it looks nice. Especially, yes, on a day like today.
“Sarah?”
I look around. See Freddie sitting there beside me. He never fails to make my heart skip a beat, my dear boyfriend. God, “boyfriend.” What a word. I sound like a bloody teenager. But what better word is there for it, really? Partner? Too sappy. Significant Other? Wow. Sexy.
No. Unfortunately, we have to submit to the teenage classic that is “girlfriend and boyfriend.”
He has dark brown eyes. Short, jet black hair. That stubble, which makes him look so attractive, and that little neck scar, which I find weirdly endearing. And he always has this smile to his face. A smile that warms me inside. That calms and soothes me in my darkest moments.
I am so grateful for Freddie. My marriage to Gregg was collapsing before Charlie went missing, but Charlie’s disappearance was the icing on the cake. Gregg couldn’t handle it. The shock and grief of losing his son. But something else, too.
The resentment.
The resentment directed at me because I was supposed to be the one looking after Charlie that summer’s day, July 17th, just over three years ago.
Charlie was in my company when he went missing. I’d let him out of my sight, let his fingers slip from mine, and he was gone because of me.
The sex with Gregg, already limited, dried up to nothing. That was an immediately foreboding sign. I’m not going to lie; I’ve always had a high sex drive. Caused a few problems with Gregg and me in the first place. He was way more laid back about the whole endeavour while I needed it, craved it.
But we loved each other. For over ten years, anyway. We worked through it.
Until we couldn’t work through any of it anymore. And in our moment of grief, we went our separate ways.
It was difficult; I’m not going to lie. Mostly because I still, to this day, find it hard to accept Charlie is gone. Even though the police told me he’s most likely dead. Even though everyone around tells me in various, gentle ways that he’s gone. Even though deep down myself I know it’s the case, I still have this feeling that he’s going to walk through the door and slot right back into my life again as if no time has passed at all.
And just when I thought I couldn’t be more alone, I met Freddie.
Freddie is the opposite of Gregg, and I say that in the sweetest way possible. Gregg, nice as he was, wasn’t a conventionally attractive guy. He was a bit nerdy. Traditional family man. A very safe pair of hands. Sweet, cute, all those nice things. Freddie, on the other hand, is a bit of a rough diamond. His family history is somewhat complex and unclear. Estranged from his mum, and his dad died when he was young. He’s someone who had a bit of a wild youth and early twenties but is finally putting all that aside to settle down properly now.
Yet, he still has that spark about him. A spark that reminds me of being twenty again.
The sex is great, too.
I think back to when I met him in a bar eighteen months ago. I was drinking alone as a quest to get myself out of the house and build some confidence. I remember how he just wandered into my life out of nowhere and seemed so perfect. So confident. So self-assured. Just what I needed. I’d only been out of my marriage to Gregg for six months, so it seemed a little early and fresh. I’d sworn I wouldn’t get involved with another man. That I’d spend some time to just focus on myself for a while.
But there was just something about Freddie, right from the off. Something that drew me to him. That allured me.
Like he knew me so, so well, even though we’d only just met.
And yet, despite all that… despite how great Freddie is, how understanding he is of me and my needs… there is still an itch unscratched.
“You’re not feeling it. Are you?”
I look around at Freddie again as he sits there in the driver’s seat. I realise I zoned out. I take a deep breath. “It’s—it’s not that I don’t like it. I love it. Obviously.”
“But it’s not Broughton,” Freddie says, his face turning a little. A look that could be interpreted as annoyance, but I’ve known Freddie long enough to know he’s just unhappy because he wants me to be as excited about this as he is.
I think about shaking my head. Leaning over and kissing him and telling him I love him and that it’s perfect, the perfect little semi-detached house in a nice little suburban neighbourhood I’ve always wanted, with perfect white-tooth-smiling neighbours and perfectly cut lawns and perfect little children running around like Charlie and—
“It’s not Broughton,” I say, lowering my head a little. “I’m sorry. I’ll… I know it sounds crazy.”
“You don’t have to explain yourself,” Freddie says, putting his big hand on top of mine. “Really, Sarah. I get it.”
I look up at him, right into those chocolate brown eyes. And I see love. I see someone who cares about me dearly. I see my protector.
“You had a lot of links to Broughton. Especially with that being where… Yeah. I get it. Well. I don’t understand because I haven’t been through it. I can’t pretend to get it like you do. But it must be hell. And I’m sorry it’s something you’ve had to go through. Like I say, it must be hell. And I get that it won’t be easy moving someplace new at first. I get that it won’t be easy settling in. But I’m here for you. Talk to me, okay? Talk to me. Because that’s what I’m here for.”
I look into Freddie’s eyes, and I want to tell him he is right. That this is all about Broughton. It is all about Charlie’s disappearance. I want to tell him this isn’t going to be easy for me, but in time, with his support, I’ll make it through.
I want to tell him everything.
Every.
Single.
Thing.
But I can’t.
I can’t even begin to scratch the surface.
So instead, I just close my eyes.
Instead, I just make myself smile, even though I am aching inside.
Instead, I nod, then lean over and kiss him, right on his salty lips.
“I love you,” I say.
And I mean that. I re
ally do.
He looks me in the eyes. Then he kisses me on my forehead in that way that feels so warm, so caring, so paternal, almost.
“I love you too, Sarah. Now come on. We’d better get inside. Can’t keep the moving guys waiting all day.”
I look outside at the gorgeous, sunny day.
At this perfect street.
Birds singing.
The sound of sprinklers firing water everywhere.
Of kids laughing and playing.
I look out, take a deep breath of the warm summer air that seeps in through the open van door.
I look at my red Mini Cooper, sitting there on the pavement.
I look at the little old woman peeking through the curtains of the semi-detached house attached to us, cigarette dangling from her lips, and I know she’ll be quiet. She’ll be no trouble.
I look at it all, and I smile.
“It’s perfect,” I say.
And I mean it.
Chapter Three
I’m there again.
The sun is hot. So, so hot. I can feel a bead of sweat rolling down my forehead, over my eyebrow, touching my lips, so salty.
I can feel his hand in mine. And it’s so sweaty.