It warmed me to hear him say that, despite the nearly undetectable edge he put on the wordthis, like he needed me to know it wasn’t a blanket endorsement.
I let it go and focused on Sage’s parents. They both showed the expected signs of stress and worry: shadows under red-veined eyes, tense muscles, and the twitchiness that came from spending too much time on high alert with adrenaline pumping through your body like the Seine flooding the streets of Paris.
Their front door had no signs of forced entry. Black smears on the knob and around the frame showed where the police had dusted for fingerprints. I didn’t see a doorbell cam or any other cameras.
“My son tells me you’ve spoken with the police,” I said. “I assume they explained that most missing children reports are runaways, and around half of those leave home after a conflict with parents. Have you and Sage argued lately?”
“No more than usual with a twelve-year-old,” said Liz.
Zack looked up and down the street. For a moment, he appeared to forget we were there. Then he shook himself and took his wife’s hand. “I’m sorry. I keep hoping I’ll see him...Please, come in.”
Once inside, I started with the normal questions, likely the same ones the police had asked. Had they noticed any changes in Sage’s behavior? Had he developed any new relationships recently? Had any neighbors or other adults been paying undue attention to Sage? I recorded our conversation on my phone to review later.
Neither of them had the defensive tells of a liar. Nor did I see the oily charm I’d observed in many abusers over the years. Mostly, they appeared exhausted and afraid. Zack fidgeted with his phone like he could force it to produce a message from his son. Liz was turning the last of her yellow-polished nails into a chewed, chipped mess.
“He left his phone,” said Liz. “What kid willingly leaves their phone behind?”
Someone who doesn’t want his parents or the police to use it to track him. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“Last night at bedtime,” said Zack.
When we finished the initial questions, I had them take me through Sage’s social media history—the history they knew about and could access on Liz’s laptop, at least.
“We looked at all of this with Detective Maple, too,” said Liz. “He didn’t find any suspicious messages, but he said there are ways to hide your chats and history. He took the phone back to see what their specialists could find.”
Damn. I’d hoped to get my hands on that phone so Duke could go through it. They did let me take a photo of the detective’s business card so I could follow up with him, but I doubted Detective Maple would hand Sage’s phone to a retired PI who wanted to let an elemental mage poke around its contents.
“Do you mind if I look in Sage’s room?” I asked.
Zack took me upstairs. He stopped at a door decorated with a LEGO Batman poster. “It’s a mess. Even more than usual.”
Messwas an understatement. Laundry was piled beneath a small loft-style bed and in front of the closet. The bedcovers were on the floor. LEGO creations covered every available surface, and individual pieces were scattered about like caltrops, ready to destroy unprotected feet. Blood-stained tissues overflowed from the trash can. “What happened—”
“Oh, the tissues. The detective asked about that, too. Sage had a bad nosebleed Saturday morning.”
“Did that happen often?”
“Not like this. He’d get little nosebleeds when he was younger, but they ended when he finally stopped picking it.” Zack grimaced. “Sorry. You know how kids are.”
The lone window had been dusted for prints, too. “That window was shut and latched when you found it?”
“That’s right.”
I walked carefully through the plastic minefield. “The police should have asked you for a list of Sage’s friends and teachers and anyone else he interacts with. Could I get a copy of that list?”
“Yes, of course. Liz can email it to you.”
I was only half-listening. I pulled up the blinds and peered outside. There was nothing but a small fenced-in backyard and a narrow road. Beyond that was another row of townhouses.
I saw nobody, but Ifeltsomeone watching, felt their focus and attention on me like an unwanted massage.
It wasn’t Zack Parker. He was just standing there, staring at his son’s things. He wouldn’t have noticed if I stripped naked and gave him a lap dance.
The attention wasn’t sexual. A cat, maybe? From time to time, I’d encountered animals who took great offense to the scent of demon. “Do you have a pet?”
“What?” Zack blinked. “No, I’m allergic to cats and dogs. Why do you ask?”
Goosebumps tightened my skin, which was hell on the healing burns.Shadows spying on him.“Mr. Parker, would you be all right with me looking around alone? It’s harder to focus with you hovering there.”
