Chapter 2 - THE NAME HE NO LONGER REMEMBERED
For several seconds, Rachel Bennett could not speak.
The alley seemed to disappear around her.
Traffic.
Sirens.
Garbage truck somewhere behind the apartment buildings.
Her seven-year-old daughter, Emma, stood beside her clutching the empty sandwich wrapper.
But Rachel saw only the boy.
Thirteen years old now.
Or almost thirteen.
His hair had grown past his ears. His cheeks were hollow. There was a healing scrape above one eyebrow and dirt beneath his fingernails.
But those eyes—
Blue-gray.
Exactly like his father’s.
Exactly like the baby she had held six years earlier before her entire life tore open.
“Ethan,” she whispered.
The boy stiffened.
“That’s not my name.”
Rachel’s heart cracked.
“What do they call you?”
He looked toward the mouth of the alley.
“Jamie.”
“Who calls you that?”
He shrugged.
“People.”
“What people?”
“Different people.”
Rachel moved forward.
He backed away immediately.
“Don’t.”
She stopped.
“Okay.”
Every instinct in her body screamed to grab him.
Hold him.
Take him home.
Never let go.
But he was looking at her as though she might become another adult who decided where his body belonged without asking.
So Rachel remained where she was.
Emma looked between them.
“Mom?”
Rachel wiped her face.
“This is your brother.”
Emma’s mouth fell open.
“My brother?”
The boy stared at her.
“You said you only had me.”
Rachel closed her eyes.
Because how do you explain disappearance to a seven-year-old without filling her childhood with terror?
“I told you that you had a brother who died when he was little.”
Emma whispered:
“But he didn’t.”
“No.”
Ethan laughed bitterly.
“So you told her I was dead.”
Rachel flinched.
“I believed you were.”
“You said you were looking.”
“I was.”
“For six years?”
“Every day.”
He looked away.
The words clearly meant nothing.
Good intentions always sound impressive to the person who performed them.
Less so to the child who slept outside.
Rachel took out her phone.
Ethan immediately recoiled.
“No police.”
She froze.
“Why?”
“No police.”
“Ethan, you’re a missing child.”
“I’m not going anywhere with cops.”
His breathing became shallow.
Rachel lowered the phone.
“Okay.”
Not because police would never be involved.
Because right now panic mattered more.
Emma stepped forward.
“Can he come home?”
Ethan laughed.
“Home?”
The word sounded foreign.
Rachel knelt again.
“You don’t have to come anywhere with me right now.”
He studied her.
“You’re lying.”
“I probably have lied to you before.”
That surprised him.
Rachel continued.
“Adults say things to scared kids because we want them to cooperate.”
She swallowed.
“I’m not going to do that.”
“Then what?”
“Can I buy you food?”
He looked at the sandwich.
“You already did.”
“Emma did.”
Emma smiled proudly.
Ethan almost smiled back.
Almost.
Rachel asked:
“Can we sit somewhere public?”
“No car?”
“No car.”
“No police?”
“Not right now.”
He considered.
“Diner.”
Rachel nodded.
“There’s one two blocks away.”
He knew.
Of course he did.
Inside, Ethan ordered three cheeseburgers.
Rachel said nothing.
He ate the first so quickly she became frightened he would choke.
The second slower.
The third he wrapped in napkins and slipped into his jacket.
“For later?” Emma asked.
“For somebody.”
“Who?”
Ethan ignored her.
Rachel watched.
He had learned to save food.
Her son had learned to save food.
She wanted to scream.
Instead:
“Do you remember me?”
“A little.”
“What?”
He stared at his plate.
“You singing.”
Rachel stopped breathing.
“What song?”
He shrugged.
“Something about boats.”
She started crying.
“Row, Row, Row Your Boat.”
He looked embarrassed.
“Maybe.”
“What else?”
“Red kitchen.”
Their old apartment had red cabinets.
“Your scar.”
He pointed near her eyebrow.
Rachel had gotten it in a bicycle accident at nineteen.
“And someone named Mark.”
Her entire body went cold.
Emma noticed.
“Mom?”
Rachel whispered:
“Mark was your father.”
Ethan looked up.
“Was?”
“He died.”
Silence.
“When?”
“Four years ago.”
Ethan stared.
“How?”
“Car accident.”
No reaction.
He barely remembered him.
Then Ethan asked:
“Who left me?”
Rachel’s chest tightened.
“What?”
“The man said you did.”
“What man?”
“The one who took me.”
Rachel could hear her pulse.
“Tell me.”
Ethan’s face closed.
“No.”
“Please.”
“No.”
Rachel stopped.
Pushing would lose him.
Then he pulled the wrapped third burger from his jacket.
“I have to go.”
“Where?”
“Somebody needs this.”
“Who?”
He stood.
Rachel did too.
“Ethan—”
“Jamie.”
She stopped.
He looked at her.
“My name is Jamie.”
Rachel swallowed.
“Okay.”
For now.
“Jamie.”
He headed toward the door.
Rachel followed.
“Can I come?”
“No.”
“Can Emma?”
Emma immediately said:
“Yes.”
Rachel stared.
Absolutely not.
Ethan shook his head.
“No.”
Then Rachel asked:
“Will I see you again?”
He paused at the door.
“You found me once.”
She almost laughed through tears.
“Can I find you tomorrow?”
He considered.
“Eleven.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
Then:
“Bring two sandwiches.”
Emma grinned.
“Three.”
Ethan looked at her.
“Fine.”
He left.
Rachel stood at the window and watched her missing son disappear into downtown Chicago.
She did not follow.
It was the hardest thing she had ever done.
Then Emma said:
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Why did he say you left him?”
Rachel looked at the empty doorway.
“I don’t know.”
But she remembered something.
Six years earlier, on the afternoon Ethan disappeared, one person had repeatedly told her the same thing:
Stop searching. He’s gone.
Her mother-in-law.
Margaret Bennett.
May you like
And for the first time in six years, Rachel wondered whether those words had been grief.
Or instruction.
