The Lost Boy

by S. A. McEwen

  “Uncle Abby and Uncle Ray are coming,” she reminds him, watching him carefully. But all she sees is a brief, small smile on his little face, then he returns to murmuring to himself.

  Olivia still hasn’t quite got her head around Wolfie and Abby. When Abby first visited them—and Olivia had been careful to visit him, alone, several times first, before extending the invitation to her home—Wolfie had trotted up to Abby and handed him a truck, then sat at his feet without a word. And just as Wolfie had expected him to, Abby sat down with him, moving his truck into a position that appeared to satisfy Wolfie immensely.

  Silently, they’d moved their vehicles about, Wolfie nodding occasionally and smiling contentedly to himself. “Vroom, vroom,” he’d said softly, every now and then.

  Olivia had watched on in wonder. Ray had seemed uncertain, apologising for Abby in a roundabout way, more conscious of the social norms that Abby might be breaching: “He might stay there a while.” But Olivia had waved his concerns away.

  She was so grateful for this second chance. If Wolfie felt safe—which he clearly did—Abby could interact with her family in whatever way he felt so inclined.

  She’d been worried that Wolfie would be traumatised, that he would associate Abby with being taken from her, that Abby would be a frightening presence in their home. But she could see that somehow, the opposite was true: Wolfie perceived Abby as a part of home. He didn’t require an explanation. He didn’t even miss a beat.

  At first, she’d tried to explain it to herself: they’d spent ten days together. They were so similar. They just clicked somehow. She couldn’t quite understand it, though. How did Wolfie not fall apart in those ten days? How could he possibly, truly be okay?

  But underneath it was something less explicable, something that made her heart ache and her heart happy, simultaneously, and she decided that perhaps she didn’t need to understand it, or pin it down with sentences and explanations: somehow, they recognise each other.

  They just know how to be together, without words.

  In all the ways she’s tried to understand and pin down her family narrative over the last few decades, this mystery is the one she can lean in to, and accept.

  Now, she’s just about to go inside, when her phone beeps.

  Bing.

  Can I come to dinner with Abby?

  Olivia frowns in disbelief. Hannah’s lack of insight into how relationships work is dumbfounding.

  You had an affair with my husband, Olivia replies. What do you think?

  Later, Bing will send a barrage of text messages.

  I can’t believe you took him back!

  He wanted to move in with me!

  You should be grateful that I said no! If it wasn’t for me wanting something better than your sad sack of a husband, you’d be single right now!

  Olivia never receives them though. After she sends her response, as she slices mushrooms and onions, it occurs to her that she can just block Bing’s number. Again. So she does.

  When Nick and Charlie and her parents walk in the door a couple of hours later, she greets Nick with a warm kiss.

  She squeezes Charlie’s shoulder and hugs her parents hello.

  “When will Abby be here?” Daniel asks, gruff and anxious. He looks old. Olivia clasps his hand gently.

  “When he’s ready,” she replies.

  I hope you enjoyed The Lost Boy! If you like my writing, I’d love for you to join me for Good Girl Bad. It’s available for pre-order now (find it on your preferred store via www.samcewen.com), and you can dive into Rebecca’s story with an excerpt over the page.

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  May I ask a small favour? I would so greatly appreciate it if you could leave me a review for The Lost Boy. Reviews help readers to discover books they will enjoy, and are super important for independent authors. It only needs to be a line or two, to help others decide if they too would enjoy this book. I read all my reviews, and I would be so grateful x.

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  And finally, if you are interested in my writing process, reading along as I write my next book, and my thoughts on the motivation of characters (in this case people are particularly interested in Charlie) you can find out more via my newsletter (sign up at www.samcewen.com) or patreon (www.patreon.com/samcewen). I’d love to see you there!

  Good Girl Bad - Excerpt

  S.A. McEwen

  Monday

  The house is silent.

  Eerily so.

  Rebecca Giovanni stands at the top of the small stairway to the kitchen. Below her, her sixteen-year-old daughter Tabitha’s poodle, Charlie, lies on his side. He could nearly be sleeping, except he never sleeps in the kitchen, on the cold tiles. Rebecca can see that something is wrong, the position of his legs not quite right, his little head stretched back at an unusual angle, a rigidity about him sufficient information such that Rebecca does not go any closer; does not check.

  Beyond him, the front door is wide open. A cold wind blows in from the street, through the leaves of the wisteria hanging lushly around the veranda, caressing Rebecca’s forearms, swirling beyond her into the silent house.

  The faint scent—her favourite flower—drifts past her toward the very back of the house, where her youngest daughter Genevieve is still sleeping. At fourteen, she is well and truly a teen when it comes to sleeping in. The house could fall apart around her ears and she would not so much as mumble a complaint.

  It’s spring—November—but still cold, and Rebecca shivers.

  Leroy was not in their bed, and Tabitha was not in hers, either.

  Rebecca’s eyes roam around the kitchen.

  She is not worried yet.

  She notices Leroy’s phone and wallet next to the fruit bowl; he has not gone far.

  Tabby’s phone, usually glued to her hand, is hanging precariously over the edge of the dining table. It looks like it should be falling, not balancing there.

  But other than that, the house looks much the same as it always does when Rebecca gets up.

  Rebecca is still not worried, despite the open front door, and despite the dead dog in her kitchen.

  She’s not worried yet.

  But she will be.

  * * *

  Six Months Earlier

  Rebecca smooths her Armani skirt across her thighs, a tiny, self-contained movement that she uses as a break in conversation. It makes her look calm and certain; it also soothes her when she needs to take a moment to think of what it is she wants to say.

  It also reminds her of who she is: successful. Capable. In charge.

  Rebecca doesn’t speak rashly. She weighs her words up, her cool blue eyes resting on the recipient appraisingly. In this case, the recipient is Tabitha’s home room teacher, Ms Paisley.

  “I’m not sure what you’re getting at?” she says eventually, her gaze unflinching.

  Ms Paisley is young. Much younger than Rebecca, with kind brown eyes, which are right now blinking too frequently.

  Nerves? Rebecca wonders.

  She is used to people being nervous around her. Being wowed by her, in fact.

  “Well, it’s my first year teaching Tabby, of course,” Ms Paisley responds, her words tumbling over each other in her haste to get them out. It’s probably your first year teaching, full stop, Rebecca thinks to herself, patronising, but she keeps herself in check. “So I’ve only known her for a few months, obviously. It’s just, she’s always been one of our top students, and certainly her work earlier in the year was of a consistently high quality. It’s just the last month or so that things have started to slip a little. Work not handed in, or not much effort applied, that kind of thing.” She nearly looks apologetic, but seems to be trying her best not to. Even as Rebecca watches, she pulls her shoulders back and sits up a little higher in her chair.

  “I’ll have a word with her. But she’s been her usual self at home. I haven’t noticed any changes.” Here Rebecca stops. Typical, she thinks. Just as she was taking ownership—“I” haven’t noticed any
changes—she spots Nate fighting his way around chairs and parents to reach them. Rebecca watches him silently. It’s characteristic of her ex-husband to be late, and to look the opposite of calm and poised. Rebecca wonders if people think less of her because she was once married to him; if she’s tainted by association.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he puffs as he comes to a halt beside them, casting about for a spare chair he can pull up. Spying one halfway across the room, he disappears again. Rebecca turns back to Ms Paisley, who looks as though she’s very happy to wait for Nate to return.

  Does no one have a sense of time and urgency except me? Rebecca thinks. If the roles were reversed, she would plough ahead without the late husband. She would say what needed to be said to whomever was present, and conclude the meeting decisively, precisely on time. Too bad, so sad if you were late and missed half of it.

  She smooths her skirt again, the soft black fabric feeling expensive and luxurious under her touch. It clings to her thighs elegantly, ever so slightly suggestively, the muscle underneath nicely defined by regular weight classes and running. She raises her eyes to Nate again, her expression patient to anyone who didn’t know her well.

  To Nate, the patience is feigned, or mocking.

  Here we are, waiting for you, again.

  He seems unfazed though. He plonks the chair down next to Rebecca, and beams at Ms Paisley.

  “How’s my girl doing?” he says, and Rebecca has to stop herself from rolling her eyes.

  “We’re well past that, Nate,” she says, cutting Ms Paisley off, and summarising the meeting so far, her demeanour crisp and business-like. She doesn’t give Nate a chance to respond, but addresses Ms Paisley again with the air of someone who is used to making all the decisions.

  “So, I’ll have a word with her. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Tabby has always been a hard worker. If necessary, I can always limit her phone time. That’s always rather motivating for her.”

  Ms Paisley looks surprised, and starts to open her mouth, but Rebecca cuts her off. “Did you have any questions, Nate?”

  “Yes, actually,” he says, though he knows full well that the question was rhetorical, designed to show Ms Paisley that they were co-parenting cooperatively. Rebecca didn’t really expect him to say yes—to the point that she was half-rising from her chair, and stops mid-air.

  She glances at Nate, something hard passing across her face so fleetingly most people would miss it, then she smiles and sits back down. Poised and gracious.

  “Well, obviously we’ll have a talk to her,” Nate goes on, glancing at Rebecca. “But have you noticed anything at school that might explain it? Any change in her friendship group? Any boys she’s hanging out with, that might be breaking her heart?” Nate looks like he is joking, making light of it, but Rebecca can see that he’s just not sure how appropriate it is to ask Tabby’s home room teacher about her love life, so he’s disguising it under a protective, jovial father spiel.

  Joke, joke, joke.

  Rebecca thinks Nate is wasting his time. Her time.

  Of course Tabby isn’t seeing anyone.

  Rebecca actively discourages relationships—she thinks Tabby is far too young, and has more important things to do. Like excel at school and get into university. The truth is, though, that Rebecca would have no idea if Tabby was romantically involved with anyone; they don’t have that kind of relationship. Her certainty is rooted entirely in confidence that Tabby would not defy her wishes.

  She’s not worried by Ms Paisley’s revelations. Tabby is strong-willed, and can be a little bit feisty, but she usually falls back into line when Rebecca flexes her parental rights.

  “I very much doubt Tabby’s been distracted by a boy,” she says now, somewhat pompously, and Ms Paisley looks apologetic again.

  “Well, actually, there has been a lot more socialising between the boys and girls this year, and I have noticed Tabby spending a lot of time with a particular young man, Trent Witherall. Has she mentioned him to you at all?”

  Rebecca’s demeanour shifts slightly, her posture stiffening, her jaw tensing. Nate glances at her uneasily.

  “No, nothing,” Rebecca says, her voice tight. She looks to Nate for confirmation, this time appearing genuinely interested in his response.

  “She has mentioned Trent to me, yes,” he says, directing his words to Ms Paisley. “But she’s never made it sound like they’re dating, or that she likes him in particular. His name has just come up a few times when she’s talking about her friends, what they’re doing on the weekend. Do you think they’re…seeing each other?” Nate is aware of something simmering in Rebecca next to him, and he keeps his eyes carefully on Ms Paisley.

  She, likewise, speaks back directly to Nate. “I would have thought so, yes,” she says, but won’t be drawn into why she thinks that. “I really think that’s a conversation for you to have with your daughter, don’t you think?” she hedges, and Nate wonders what she has seen.

  Hand-holding?

  Kissing?

  Do kids kiss in the school grounds these days? He can’t even remember how you woo-ed girls back in his day. He can’t imagine his broody eldest daughter being billowed about by the strong feelings of young love.

  But broodiness would be the perfect breeding ground for that intensity, that all-or-nothing consuming infatuation, wouldn’t it?

  Nate suddenly feels old and out of touch. Unlike Rebecca, he has noticed a change in his daughter. He would have said it had been much longer than this year though, and doubts very much it has anything to do with Trent Witherall. In fact, if his life depended on putting a date to it, he would have said it was a year or two ago that she started to become more withdrawn, more secretive. More broody.

  About the time that Rebecca married that twerp, Leroy, in fact.

  He steals a glance at his ex-wife. She is sitting very still, projecting that calm, reasonable, I-am-listening-to-you-deeply facade. He wonders if Ms Paisley can see through it.

  He wonders what sort of man can’t see through it.

  What sort of man would fall for it.

  He did, sure. But he was so young.

  You can’t put an old head on young shoulders, his father used to tell him, and he understands the saying differently now.

  But Leroy is his age. Forty-five, give or take a few years.

  What was Leroy’s excuse?

  Or was he just as stupid as twenty-year-old Nate?

  And if Leroy was just as stupid as a twenty-year-old, what might have gone on between him and Nate’s sweet sixteen-year-old daughter, that might explain the changes in her mood?

  Back at home, Rebecca dumps her handbag on the kitchen bench with a loud thump.

  She can hear chatter coming from the lounge room, the faint hum of the television, and she feels like storming up there and shutting it down, all of it. The television, the happy family time. Tabby has made her look stupid in front of her teacher, in front of Nate, but she’s just glibly fooling around on a school night in front of the television without a care in the world.

  “Tabby!” she shouts down the hallway, and there’s a moment’s silence, the voices quieting. Then the lounge door opens and Leroy and Tabby both emerge, padding down the long hallway toward her. They look so easy, so relaxed, and she feels resentful that she has to be the one to bring things back to order, to interrupt their fun, to remind them of the real world.

  But somebody has to do it.

  But just as she opens her mouth to say something cross, something biting, Leroy jumps clownishly down the five steps into the kitchen and grabs her in a dance pose, swinging her around, one arm firmly around her waist. He grins at her impishly.

  “Look out, Tabby, Becci looks a bit peeved! What is it? An F? An expulsion? You’ve learned that Tabby’s quit maths to do embroidery instead, and your dream of retiring on the back of your daughter’s orthodontic practice have gone up in flames?”

  He spins her around once more and then pushes her against the wal
l, kissing her bang on the lips in front of Tabby, his eyes laughing.

  They’ll have sex tonight, she can tell from his kiss, the way he holds her against the wall.

  Her tummy flutters.

  “Slipping grades,” she squeaks, as she tries to wriggle out of his grasp, but the tension has gone out of her.

  Leroy gives her a final smooch, then releases her. As he turns to go back to the lounge room, to give her space to chat to Tabby, no doubt, she thinks she catches a small smile toward her daughter, and a wink, and her stomach does less of a flutter, and more of a churn.

  * * *

  Monday

  Rebecca shakes Genevieve roughly.

  “Gen. Gen!” Genevieve groans, and tries to burrow back under her doona, but Rebecca is tugging it down harder and faster than she can pull it back up.

  “Mum!” Gen protests, the cold creeping in from the hallway, from outside. From the situation in the kitchen.

  “Where’s your sister?” Rebecca’s voice is urgent.

  “Wha-at?” Genevieve rubs bleary eyes. “How should I know?”

  It’s now nearly 9 a.m. Two hours have passed since Rebecca found the front door open, and impatience and irritation have finally given way to something more urgent.

  “Get up,” Rebecca instructs her youngest daughter, rifling in her cupboard and throwing a tee shirt and some leggings at her. Genevieve holds them up in confusion. They’re not appropriate for a Melbourne spring morning, no matter that’s it’s nearly summer. And they’re certainly not appropriate for a school day.

  “They’re gone,” Rebecca continues, looking through Genevieve’s wardrobe like she might find some clue in there. “Leroy. Tabby. Leroy’s car. But something’s not right. I can feel it.”

  Hustling Genevieve through the house, shivering in the thin tee shirt Rebecca had handed her, she points to the mobile phones and wallets triumphantly. “See? Tabby would never go anywhere without her phone. And. Charlie.” Here she glances at the little form underneath the sweater she had hastily thrown over him while she made phone calls, trying to find her daughter and husband.