Honestly, I was more concerned about him surviving the night than getting straight A’s. Not that I was going to tell them that.
I pointed away from my house. “I said the sidewalk.”
No one moved.
“Has the school expressed concern about his absence?”
I studied them for a bit, having discovered a few things about the media through my daily contact. The questions they asked were meant to provoke, to get you to drop your guard and maybe reveal something you hadn’t meant to. Today’s prompt: bad parenting.
Today’s response: shower thoughts. “To smithereens has to be the worst way to be blown up, don’t you think?”
They blinked.
“Do they ever actually find all the smithereens? Or do some of them just stay lost?”
They traded confused looks, then immediately refocused. A camera whirred.
“Can we ask Jake how he feels about being confined to the house?”
My lips pressed tight. “He’s not available for comment. And you’re still on my property.”
I went inside and locked the door, only to find Keith standing there waiting.
“Smithereens? Really?” he said. “What happened to not engaging with them?”
“Youcan’t engage,” I said. “There’s no rule that says I can’t mess with them.”
I did a quick sweep of the house. “How did it go today?”
Keith scratched the back of his neck. “Uh… you know. No one died.”
“I’ll take it,” I said, clapping a hand on his shoulder.
Keith had come back once Jake did. Whatever demons he’d been wrestling with stayed put after that, replaced by something steadier. He became a calming presence in Jake’s life and one of the few who could pull him out of himself. In the hospital, Keith had been the one to break through Jake’s near-catatonic fog. Maybe that was the moment he realized he needed to get his shit together. And for the most part, he had. Yes, I still occasionally caught him smoking out back in the shed, but at least it wasn’t in far-off places with shithead acquaintances.
“Where is everyone?” I asked.
“Watching TV.”
“Mom too?”
He shrugged. “Haven’t seen her.”
A quick turn around the corner revealed two-thirds of myfamily, right where Keith said they’d be, watching TV. “iCarly” was one of those special shows that united all ages of the McKallister kids. Grace and Quinn, sitting on the floor with their backs against the couch, were technically too young for the content, but after the age-inappropriate months they’d just lived through—who cared?
Emma was at the corner desk, pretending to be working on homework but getting sidetracked by the ridiculousness on the TV. Kyle and Jake were sitting on the couch, each on their own end. The distance between them felt vast. Jake, once the lifeblood of the four youngest, now wanted nothing to do with his siblings, Kyle included. It was devastating to watch, but Jake wasn’t the boy who’d been taken from us. I honestly had no idea who he was anymore. He barely talked, but when he did, there was a disconnect, as if his mind was still back in that predator’s basement. Michelle and I were concerned enough about his overall mental state that we moved Kyle into Keith’s room to keep him safe.
I looked at Jake. He was so damaged, so lost inside his own suffering. When the FBI told us what Ray Davis had done to him, I didn’t take it well. While Jake was missing, I knew he was probably being abused, and that was hard enough. But hearing the details of what my boy had been forced to survive tore me apart. Anger consumed me, and dark, vindictive thoughts took hold, until all I wanted was to take my son’s place and kill the man all over again.
Michelle put a stop to that. This wasn’t about me, she said. And it wasn’t about Ray Davis. It was about Jake and what it would take to bring him back to life. So, whenever I felt the urge to put my fist through a wall thinking about that man, I forced my focus back where it belonged: on what Jake needed, and on what came next.
For now, Jake didn’t need much. Food, if it was put in front of him. Space. Quiet. Mostly he didn’t ask for anything at all.
Except for the hoodie.
He’d been wearing it the day of the kidnapping. He’d started asking for it in his hospital bed. His voice barely worked back then. When he tried to speak, nothing came out. But he’d made it clear—he wanted that hoodie, and no amount of dissuading could change his mind.
It took nearly a month to get it out of police evidence. Forms, signatures, and a lecture about procedure I barely registered. The sweatshirt was filthy, as if the story of his captivity was embedded in the cloth. Michelle washed it immediately. Twice. Whatever had soaked into the fabric didn’t stand a chance. Jake had watched the entire cycle through the glass, like he was guarding something fragile. After that, he wore it every day.
