Want to Know a Secret? (3)

“Don’t freak out, April,” he says. “You know Bobby. He probably went over to play with Leo.”

Leo is Bobby’s best friend, and conveniently Julie’s son.

“Without asking me?” My voice sounds high and squeaky. “He wouldn’t do that.”

“Hmm. It sounds exactly like something he would do.”

That’s not true.

At least, I don’t think it’s true. Admittedly, Bobby has been testing some of the boundaries of what we will allow him to do lately. Maybe Elliot is right. Maybe he’s playing at Leo’s house right now. Although if he were with Julie, wouldn’t she have mentioned it when she texted me about the PTA meeting?

“But what about that text message I got?” I say. I was willing to shrug it off as a prank before, but now that I can’t locate Bobby, I realize it may be much more than that.

He just shakes his head. “I… I don’t know…”

“I’m calling Julie,” I announce. Before he can say anything, I reach for my phone and call Julie’s number on speed dial. It rings five times, then goes to voicemail. “She’s not picking up.”

“She never picks up.”

My heart is racing as I push past my husband. “I’m going over there.”

Elliot is watching me, his eyebrows bunched together. “I’m sure he’s fine. I bet anything he’s at Leo’s house.”

“Yeah,” I mumble.

“I mean,” he goes on, “kids don’t just get taken from the backyard. That’s the kind of thing that happens in fiction. In real life, that never happens. It’s really rare.”

I stop in my tracks to glare at him. “I just got a text message asking me where he is, and now I can’t find him. You really think I’m overreacting?”

Elliot opens his mouth, but no words come out.

Bobby has taped one of his drawings to our front door. It looks like a turtle, which is his favorite kind of animal (this month). He’s written his name in the lower right-hand corner, and in the upper right-hand corner, he’s scribbled, “For Mom.” Whenever he draws anything, he always writes that in the corner. Every drawing is for me.

A few hours ago, if I saw this I would have yelled at him for using tape on the wall. I’ve told him a hundred times that it takes the paint off the walls. Now when I see him, I’m going to hand him a roll of scotch tape and tell him to go crazy. He could cover every inch of the wall if he wants.

I yank open the front door, and Elliot follows me. “Do you want me to check Oliver’s house?”

Oliver is Bobby’s other friend on the block. He’s all the way down at the corner. It seems unlikely Bobby would have gone over there. But you never know. “Fine.”

I can’t decide whether I should be happy that Elliot is taking this seriously and helping me to find our son, or if I should be terrified that he doesn’t seem quite so certain anymore that we’re going to find him any second now. But we decide to check both houses and meet back if we don’t find him.

I don’t want to think about what will happen if we don’t find him.

I practically sprint over to Julie’s house. She lives on the other side of the light blue house with our new neighbors. It’s a sixty-second walk. Of course, now the journey seems endless as I walk/jog in my flimsy ballet flats that I usually just wear around the house. Every pebble and crack in the pavement jabs my feet, but I barely notice it.

I keep telling myself Bobby is at Leo’s house. And then I’m going to kill him for going there without telling me. But before that, I’m going to hug him and kiss him all over his sweet little freckled face.

Want to know a secret? Your son isn’t where you think he is.

Who would send me a text like that? Did somebody snatch my son out of my backyard? What if I never see Bobby again? What if when I shoved him into the backyard to keep him out of the way, that was the last time I’d ever see him.

Oh God.

I am out of breath by the time I get to Julie’s house, which is the biggest one on the block. And the newest. Elliot is a corporate lawyer, but Julie’s husband Keith does personal injury law, and he really cleans up. Elliot does well at his job and I make good money through April’s Sweet Secrets, but the Bresslers are the kind of rich where they throw hundred dollar bills into the fireplace for kindling.

But right now, I couldn’t care less. I sprint up the steps to her front door and ring the doorbell. Twice.

No answer.

I pound on the door a few times. But nobody is home. All the lights are out and I can see through the open shutters that the living room is empty. Bobby isn’t playing with Leo. The Bresslers aren’t even home.

I take my phone out. The text message is still on the screen, taunting me. They haven’t responded to me. I shoot off another text message:



Where is he??? Tell me now!!!!!!



No reply.

In the past, I’ve done a reverse lookup for phone numbers. You can get the information for free from the online White Pages. Maybe I can find out who sent me the text message.

My hands are shaking as I bring up the White Pages on my phone. It takes me three tries to successfully copy the phone number of the person who texted me into the search engine. I stand there, my legs trembling, as my phone hourglasses. Finally, the screen flashes with the result: