Chapter 8 - The Missing Boy

I don't remember running back to the car.

I remember Quinn shouting into her radio.

I remember rain hitting my face.

I remember one thought, over and over.

Not my son.

Not again.

Sophia met us at the front doors when we reached the estate. "He's not gone," she said quickly. "We found his inhaler in the game room. Vincent is checking the west wing."

"Where was the last place anyone saw him?"

"With Lily."

My heart stopped.

"Where is Lily?"

Sophia's face broke.

"I don't know."

The house became a machine.

Doors sealed. Rooms cleared. Attic. Cellar. Guest suites. Servants' wing. Laundry. Wine room. Garage.

Nothing.

Then a security guard called from the old chapel near the river.

I reached it first.

Ethan and Lily were crouched behind the last pew. Ethan had one arm around her. Lily was crying silently.

I pulled my son against me so hard he complained.

"Dad, I can't breathe."

I loosened my grip.

"Why did you leave the ballroom?"

He pointed to Lily.

"She said the doctor was coming. She said we had to hide."

Lily wiped her face. "I saw him outside."

"Harris?"

She nodded.

Vincent searched the chapel grounds. No doctor.

Quinn examined the side door. Fresh mud marked the stone. Somebody had stood there.

Then Ethan tugged my sleeve.

"Dad, Dr. Harris gave me something before the cake."

Every muscle in my body locked.

"What?"

"A vitamin. He said it would help because I looked tired."

Sophia gasped.

"Did you take it?"

"No. It tasted weird, so I spit it into a napkin."

"Where is the napkin?"

He thought. "My jacket pocket."

We found it crumpled inside his blazer.

Quinn bagged it.

I stared at Ethan, trying not to let him see how close fear was to tearing me open.

The cake had been one attempt.

The tablet had been another.

"He wanted to make sure," Quinn said quietly.

My phone rang.

Unknown number.

I answered.

For several seconds there was only breathing.

Then a man's voice said, "You should've let the boy eat the cake."

I knew that voice.

Not Harris.

Not Arthur.

Someone I had heard at my dinner table for fifteen years.

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My father's oldest friend.

Frank Delaney.