Boy, 9, Missing

by Nic Joseph

  Sam watched his back for a moment before turning to trail Lucas up the stairs. As he did, he tried his best not to marvel too much at the pictures on the walls, the smiling family in them, or the ornate rug that ran up the middle of the long stairwell up to the second floor. He didn’t want to seem uncool; he wasn’t rich, but that didn’t mean he needed to gawk over Lucas and his cool house or his cool family.

  They walked into Lucas’s room, and Lucas picked up a magazine off the floor. He sat on the edge of his bed and began to read it. Sam could see from his place by the door that there were pictures of trucks in it.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  Lucas looked up, and he shrugged. “Just Vintage Trucks,” he said and looked back down at the magazine.

  Sam wasn’t sure what to do. The bass line from whatever song Kate Scroll was playing downstairs floated up into the bedroom, and it seemed to only highlight the silence between them.

  Stop being weird, Sam thought. It wasn’t like they had to talk every second he was there. He walked over to the bed and sat on the edge of it, attempting to look at the magazine with Lucas, but the boy didn’t move.

  “That one’s cool,” he said, pointing to one of the trucks in the magazine, but Lucas didn’t respond. Sam cleared his throat.

  He leaned over again, arching his neck to see just a corner of the magazine.

  “Oh, and that one comes apart. I saw a commercial for it.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Lucas said as he continued reading. “How long do you think your parents are going to be here?”

  “Huh?”

  “How long do you think you’re staying?”

  “Oh,” Sam said, blinking. “I don’t know. I think not too long.”

  Lucas didn’t say anything but went back to his magazine, and Sam suddenly felt very hot. He pulled at the neck of his T-shirt and looked around the boy’s room. There were so many cool toys that he wished he had. There was never enough money for them, according to his mother.

  Maybe Lucas would let him borrow some of his old toys. He was really good with things and wouldn’t mess them up.

  “Hey, everything going okay?”

  Lucas looked up from his magazine. Kate Scroll was leaning in the doorway, her hair fluttering around her face. Sam tried not to stare at her, but she was so pretty, almost like a movie star, and he wondered if he had walked right into a film set, since that would explain the beautiful house.

  “Yeah, things are great,” Lucas said.

  Sam frowned. The sudden smile on Lucas’s face seemed odd, since just a minute ago, he’d seemed sad or upset. But Sam forced himself to smile at Kate Scroll too.

  “Good,” she said. “Well, the food won’t be ready for a little while. Some of the other boys are outside. If you bundle up very tightly, you can go outside to play for a little while.”

  “Yes,” Lucas said excitedly, jumping off the bed and heading out the door.

  Sam followed quickly behind, his briefcase in hand.

  He didn’t want to go. Not really. The “other boys” probably meant Lucas’s neighbors, a couple of boys from school who were mean to him sometimes. But he couldn’t very well just sit inside. Who would he talk to? Lucas’s older brother, Francis, was downstairs somewhere, and he wasn’t so bad, but he was older, and he didn’t really talk to anyone.

  No, he would go outside. He would just go watch. He wasn’t really into their games anyway.

  By the time he got downstairs, Lucas was already outside with the other boys. Sam bundled into his coat, put on his shoes, and opened the patio door. He stepped outside, his fingers tightening around the handle of his briefcase.

  The boys grabbed a soccer ball and began kicking it around in the cold, crunchy grass.

  Sam shivered and took a place on the side of the lawn. He tried to pretend to look interested in the game, but really, he wondered if they were all thinking he was weird. It was freezing outside, and he balled his free hand into a fist. He considered going back inside to start preparing for tonight’s show, but he knew his dad would want him to at least try.

  “Who’s your new friend?” one of the boys asked Lucas. There was a long pause while Lucas looked at him and Sam looked back, a half smile on his face, unsure about whether he should do something. After a moment, he lifted his arm and waved slightly.

  Lucas didn’t move.

  “He’s, like, the son of my mom’s friend or whatever,” Lucas said. “I think he’s kind of retarded or something.”

  The other boys looked at Sam, and there was a long moment of silence.

  Sam wondered if he should say something or protest against Lucas’s idiot choice of words.

  “I—”

  A giggle escaped one of the boys, who bounced the soccer ball off his knee. “He probably rides the short bus,” he said, and they all laughed.

  Lucas nodded and reached for the ball. “Yeah, probably,” he said. “He brought that briefcase with him from home, and he’s been hugging it all night. Super weird.”

  Sam inhaled sharply and took a step back. As he did, he stumbled and fell on the grass. The boys looked over again, and he immediately pulled himself up, pretending nothing was wrong. But the tears that had rushed to the surface were overwhelming, and he bit his lip, looking off into the distance, wishing he could run inside and tell his mother he wanted to go home.

  But he wouldn’t ruin it for everyone.

  His mom would be so sad if she knew he was upset. He would get through the dinner and go home and forget all about trying to be friends with Lucas Scroll.

  He’d never make the same mistake again that he’d made tonight.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sunday, 6:00 p.m.

  I pulled away from the Farr house, my gaze on Kira Jones in my rearview mirror.

  She was at least five years younger than me, which meant she couldn’t have been more than eight or so at the time of Lucas’s accident. Still, I’d seen in her eyes a passion I’d witnessed many times as a kid. Sam’s trial had created two distinct camps—on the one hand, there were people who had empathized with my parents. Much of their anger had centered around the fact that Sam wouldn’t say anything about the moments that led up to the drowning. Had the boys been in the same room? Did Sam see what happened? Were they playing together or alone? My parents’ supporters had felt that Sam’s refusal to talk was a clear indicator that he’d done something wrong, and that regardless of his age, he should be punished.

  On the other hand, there were those who had sympathized with the Farrs. They weren’t always decided about what had happened upstairs on the night of the party, but they were certain about one thing: a child shouldn’t—couldn’t—be held accountable for it.

  “Why were these beautiful children upstairs alone in the first place?” Sheridan Porter, a popular newspaper columnist had written. “Aren’t the real ones to blame the parents, who were downstairs, drinking wine, playing games, and doing who knows what? Aren’t they the ones who let this happen?”

  Few people had taken the middle road. That’s what happened in a small town like Lansing. Everyone had an opinion and took care to make it known.

  I sped through the streets of Lansing toward Sam’s school. I pulled into the parking lot just after six p.m. and wedged myself into a narrow space. The school sat at the end of a residential block, and there was a small playground out front where a couple was walking their dog. As I turned off the car, I leaned forward and looked at my forehead in the rearview mirror, cringing at the sight of drying blood. I opened the glove compartment and rifled around, pulling out a few takeout napkins. Using a bit of saliva, I wiped at the gash on my head and tried not to think about the germs, filth, and dirt that were working their way through my system at that very moment.

  As I got out of the car, I straightened my clothes and headed toward the main doors of the sc
hool. I was surprised to find them unattended, and I felt like an intruder as I walked inside the building. No one was in sight, but the sound of laughter and children’s voices came from a room down the hall.

  I passed a classroom as a man with a neat haircut and friendly smile walked out. “Can I help you?” His smile waned when he took in my appearance, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Yes, my name is Francis Scroll. I have an appointment with Ms. Smith-Bilks.”

  The man crossed his arms. “Are you a parent? Rehearsal won’t be done until seven.”

  “No, I’m not. She called me and asked me to come by…”

  He seemed to want to probe, but he finally nodded. “You can wait here, please.”

  I waited as he walked down the hallway. I turned toward a large bulletin board on the wall and scanned the pictures of smiling kids for any signs of Matthew Farr. The pictures of him and his father burned a hole in my pocket, and I wondered how I’d explain them if they fell out.

  “Are you waiting for someone?”

  I spun around, my hand instinctively going to my pocket. I was eye to eye with a woman in a pantsuit, her hair combed into a low bun. She assessed me quickly and boldly, and I shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.

  “Yes, I’m meeting with Ms. Smith-Bilks.”

  “I’m Principal Erin Murray. And you are?”

  I cleared my throat. “Francis Clarke.”

  Something about the woman’s stern gaze made the name slip off my tongue.

  The woman nodded. “Are you a parent?”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “Just a…friend.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Ms. Smith-Bilks knows better than that,” she said, but she smiled knowingly and leaned closer. “I’m sure she’ll be here soon.”

  I nodded. “Thanks.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “Uh, yeah. A daughter. She’s fifteen.”

  “Ah,” she said, smiling. “Too old for us. Well, if you know anyone who is looking for a good grade school or junior high,” she said. “We’re working on enrollment. Our numbers just came out.”

  “Not great?”

  “Better than most in the area, but our head count is still low. We’re always on the lookout for great students and families.”

  I nodded, unsure of what to say next.

  “Mr. Scroll?”

  I turned around, and the man I’d met earlier approached us. “Ms. Smith-Bilks is ready to see you now.”

  I followed him, turning back to smile at the principal. She was watching me with a curious expression.

  “Scroll?”

  I shrugged pathetically before following the man down the hall.

  A door near the end opened, and the voices of a choir swelled as a petite woman stepped out and closed the door.

  “There she is,” the man next to me said, pointing, and the woman raised her hand in my direction.

  “Thanks,” I said. The man turned away, and I kept walking.

  The woman waiting for me couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, with a short, blond bob, a round face, and a nervous, twitchy demeanor.

  “We can talk in my classroom,” she said, leading me around another corner and down the hall to a cool, dark classroom. She flipped on the lights as we walked inside.

  “Sorry, I’m earlier than I thought I’d be,” I said.

  “It’s okay,” she said, shifting back and forth. “What happened to your face?”

  “It’s nothing,” I said. “A little accident. I hope you don’t mind me getting straight to the point—”

  “No, not at all,” she said, spinning around and walking to her desk. She sat in the chair and then stood again. “Did you want to sit?” she asked, gesturing toward the desks, and I shook my head.

  “No, thanks.” She still didn’t say anything, and I fought the urge to move around her desk and shake her. “Ms. Smith-Bilks, what’s going on? Please, if there’s something you know about Matthew Farr, now would be the time to tell me.”

  She nodded. “I have been trying to think of the best way to tell you this,” she said. “I guess there is no other way than to just come out with it. I am concerned about…”

  “About?”

  “The relationship Matthew had with someone on staff at the school.”

  I froze, staring down at her. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected—maybe something about his performance at school, or the way he got along with his parents.

  But a relationship?

  “Who?” I asked.

  She hesitated again, and her gaze darted over my shoulder toward the door. “Our principal. Principal Murray.”

  Wait—the woman I’d just met?

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Principal Murray hasn’t been… Let’s say, she’s had some accusations brought against her in the past.”

  “By whom?”

  “By a parent. The parent of one of our seventh graders. It wasn’t anything public, just a buzz that went around in some internal circles. And then one day it stopped, that kid was transferred, and that was it.”

  “What were the accusations about?”

  “Well,” she said, eyes widening, “I’m sure you can imagine.”

  “No, actually. Imagining is the worst thing I can do in my job.”

  “Well, the seventh grader—his name was Todd King—he was spending a lot of time with Principal Murray. There were all sorts of after-school projects and things like that.”

  “So there were accusations of abuse.”

  “Yes.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “About two years.”

  “And what is the connection with Matthew Farr?”

  “Well, there are always rumors, you know. Like I said, nothing public, just internal chatter. There was another boy about six months ago, but I don’t think that was anything, just teachers being teachers, especially after what happened with Todd. But then I heard a bit of chatter about Matthew Farr.”

  “A third grader?” I asked incredulously.

  She grimaced. “Like I said, rumors.”

  “And nobody said anything? I mean, to his parents? To anyone?”

  “Well, that’s the thing,” she said, looking down at her hands. “And that’s why I wasn’t sure I should say anything to you. It’s not like we knew it was going on. At all. Believe me, if I’d had any evidence that something was going on, I would have said something. But it seemed like gossip after what happened with Todd.”

  “Then why do you think it’s something more than that now?”

  “Well, I don’t—not necessarily. But now that he’s gone missing…”

  “That’s a pretty big allegation you’re making.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she shrugged. “That’s why I didn’t want to make it. But if I don’t, then…” She shook her head. “I don’t know. It came to mind when I heard someone joking about how horrible it would be if that were the case, and I realized we were joking about something so horrible, and nobody had thought to…” She shrugged.

  “To tell anyone?”

  She nodded. “It’s one of those things that sounds completely insane until you see yourself on the news, and the journalist is asking you, ‘Well, Ms. Smith-Bilks, if you had these suspicions, why didn’t you say anything?’ and you’re watching that woman on TV, and you’re like, ‘She’s such an idiot! Who does that? Who doesn’t say something?’ I don’t want to be that woman, Mr. Scroll.”

  “Have you noticed anything suspicious about the way Principal Murray has acted over the last couple of days?”

  “Not really,” she said. “She’s been in and out. She’s working on a fund-raiser or something like that for her church.”

  “Well, thank you for telling me,” I said. “You did the right thing.” />
  “I hope so. And I’m sorry I didn’t say anything before. It’s not the kind of accusation you throw around unless you’re desperate. We have to find poor Matthew. He’s such a sweet little boy.”

  I left moments later and peeled out of the school’s parking lot with no clear direction in mind. As I drove through the streets of Lansing, my head throbbed mercilessly, and I felt short of breath. What Smith-Bilks had told me hadn’t changed my mind, not completely—there was no denying what I’d seen in the basement of Alex’s cabin.

  Still, I couldn’t ignore an accusation like that.

  What the hell was going on here?

  I pressed down on the gas pedal and moved quickly through the streets. Driving fast, letting the windows down, the cold air rushing past my face—this always helped clear my head.

  I was about fifteen minutes away from home in a part of town I rarely visited. I turned again, looking for Torrance Avenue—the main road that would get me back to the south side of Lansing—when the bright lights of a hospital caught my attention.

  I blinked against the lights, the glare making me squint.

  I almost kept going.

  On the surface, there was nothing special about the hospital.

  But on the north side of the street, there was a large sign that made me pause.

  It wasn’t the name of the hospital that caught my attention, but the logo beside it: a large box that contained the letters C and S.

  There was nothing more than a bright blue box around the two letters, which were mashed together in a jumble of curves.

  C and S.

  Cove Sparry Hospital.

  I’d seen that logo before.

  I racked my brain about where exactly I’d seen that treatment of those letters.

  C and S.

  And then it hit me. I stopped the car suddenly, eliciting a loud honk from the car behind me. The driver sped around, shaking her fist as she tore off down the street.

  I put the car in park and jumped out, stumbling to open the back door and diving inside. I tore through the items on the backseat, looking for the things I’d taken from beneath my father’s dresser.