Chapter thirty-seven
Lindsay
My phone rings, and I know something is wrong before I answer. Steve wouldn't call to make conversation.
"Lindsay," he says, and he doesn't waste a single word after that. "We can't find Henry."
The room tilts. I have to sit down before my knees give out.
It's Thursday—A school day. Things should be following the schedule.
I ask where Arthur is.
Europe. A different time zone. A different continent. The worst possible distance.
"Henry was at school," Steve continues. "But he didn't show up for pickup. We suspect he ran away after the school day was complete."
My brain snaps into motion. Lists. Patterns. Henry's habits. His quiet rebellions. His safe places.
"He wouldn't run randomly," I say, already grabbing my keys.
My sister appears in the doorway, concern etching her features as she watches me scramble for my shoes.
"What's happening?"
"Henry's missing," I say, not slowing down. "I have to go."
She doesn't try to stop me. Doesn't remind me that I walked away, that I broke things, that this might not be my place anymore. She just nods and steps aside.
"Call if you need anything."
I keep Steve on the phone as I drive, listing places Henry might be. The library. The comic shop near the school. The park. Steve confirms they're being checked.
Then my hands tighten on the steering wheel. I remember driving with Henry, listing my favorite places. He wouldn't go there—but still, in some quiet, stubborn way I can't get it out of my mind.
"My old apartment," I say finally. "Did anyone check there?"
There's a pause. Then Steve exhales. "No."
"I'm going," I tell him. "Call me if anything changes."
I don't wait for permission. I don't ask if this is appropriate or if I'm crossing a line. If Henry is scared and lost—then fights and preferences don't matter.
Traffic crawls. I take side streets, cut through parking lots, run a yellow light that's definitely more red than amber.
My heart pounds against my ribs, keeping time with worst-case scenarios.
What if he's not there? What if something happened? What if I'm wrong?
The doubt creeps in, quiet but insistent. I'm not his mother. Not his family. Just a woman who appeared in his life and then vanished.
But I keep driving.
Henry is sitting on the steps when I pull up. Backpack at his feet. Knees pulled to his chest. He looks smaller than I've ever seen him.
I'm out of the car before the engine cuts.
"Henry," I say, and my voice breaks even though I didn't give it permission to.
