She couldn’t answer.
“Two seconds!” he snapped, raising the gun to Sam’s head.
“Okay! Take him! Just please… don’t hurt him.”
Then Sadie did the only thing she could do. She let a madman take her son.
Alone, she cried in the dark, scared to move, scared not to.
“God help me,” she sobbed. “Help Sam!”
But God wasn’t listening.
Philip stumbled into the house at one fifteen. And stumbled was an understatement. Upstairs in Sam’s room, Sadie heard the sound of glass hitting the floor. It was followed by a belligerent curse.
She stared at the bat signal clock on Sam’s wall.
The twenty minutes were up. Five minutes ago. They had passed slowly, like a never-ending funeral dirge for the Pope. She had mentally shut down and collapsed on Sam’s bed in a haze of overwhelming pain, grief and guilt.
She pulled herself to her feet, ignoring the throbbing spasms in her ribs. Her legs shook, her heart raced and her head pounded.
What do I do? What do I tell Philip?
She moaned. “Oh God. Sam…”
She stepped out into the hall, one hand on the doorframe for support. Her throat burned as heavy footsteps lumbered up the stairs.
Philip turned the corner and lurched to a stop when he saw her. “Sadie?” he slurred. “Whatcha doing? Waiting up for me?”
“Philip, I n-need—”
“I need you to blow me.” He grinned lecherously and tried to grab her.
She batted his arm away. “Philip, stop it!”
“So I’m a little drunk,” he said, pouting. “We can still—”
“Sam’s gone,” she whispered. “He took Sam.”
“What?”
“The Fog… took… him, Philip.” Her voice caught in the back of her throat as deep, wracking sobs hiccupped to the surface.
Philip stared at her. “What the hell are you talking about?” He pushed her aside and staggered into Sam’s room. “Sam’s sleeping in his—”
He stopped, confused. Then he strode to the closet and flung the door open. “Where is he, Sadie?” He whipped around, almost colliding into her. “What’ve you done with my son?”
She was stunned. “I haven’t done anything, Philip. I told you, Sam’s been kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped?” His glazed eyes went immediately sober and his face blanched. “Oh shit.” He looked as though someone had sucker punched him in the gut.
She moved slowly toward their bedroom.
“What are you doing?” he demanded, following her.
“Calling the police.”
“You haven’t called them yet?”
She reached for the cordless phone. “I just… found him gone.”
Philip sank down on the bed and watched her dial.
When the 911 operator answered, Sadie’s composure crumbled. “My son’s been kidnapped,” she wept into the phone.
The man took her information, then instructed her not to hang up. “The police will be there soon.”
Phone in hand, she stood by the window and stared at the street below. There were no signs of life. No cars, no lights.
No Sam.
Then she heard the siren wailing in the distance.
“Did you see anyone?” Philip rasped.
She hesitated and swallowed hard, remembering The Fog’s parting words. ‘If you even say you saw me, I’ll send the kid back to you all right. In little bloody pieces.’
She believed him. If she said anything, Sam was as good as dead. And how would she live with that on her conscience? But she realized something else. Once she started lying, there was no turning back.
She choked back a muffled sob. “I heard something. I thought he fell out of bed. But when I went to check on him…” She stared at the phone. “Sam was gone.”
The lies had begun.
7
Two police detectives showed up on her doorstep. The younger of the two, a tall man with closely cropped sandy hair, looked as if he were fresh out of college, while the other was balding and probably nearing retirement. They were followed by three crime scene unit investigators carrying metal cases.
Philip greeted them with a slurred, “C’mon in, officers.”
“Mr. and Mrs. O’Connell, we’re terribly sorry,” the older detective said, offering Sadie his hand.
“Actually, my last name is Tymchuk,” Philip cut in. “My wife kept her maiden name. For her writing.”
The detective’s wrinkled eyes arched. “Ms. O’Connell, then. Detective Lucas, and this is my partner, Detective Patterson.” He reached into his shirt pocket and handed Sadie a plain white business card.
Detective Jason Lucas, Robbery Unit.
“Robbery?” she asked, confused.
“We handle abductions too.”
She led them upstairs and paused in front of Sam’s door.
“Is this your son’s room?” Patterson asked.
When she nodded, the young detective disappeared into the room with the crime scene investigators. She leaned against the wall, afraid to breathe or move, afraid that she was in the way, yet afraid that if she went downstairs they would miss something.
“I need a drink,” Philip muttered, veering unsteadily toward the stairs. “Want one?”
She scowled. “I think you’ve had enough.”
“I meant coffee.” He headed downstairs, shoulders slumped.
Detective Lucas cleared his throat. “Ms. O’Connell, I have to ask you some questions. Can we go downstairs?”
She shook her head. “I need to stay up here. Close to Sam’s room.”
The man gave her a sympathetic look. “Is there someplace we can sit?”
She nodded and led him to the bedroom. “Sorry for the mess,” she said, wincing as she picked a nightgown and a mauve robe—a Christmas gift from Leah—off the floor.
“Don’t worry about it.” He looked at her closely. “Ms. O’Connell, you have blood above your left eye.”
She touched her forehead. Her fingers came back sticky.
“It’s just a scrape,” she said quickly. “I tripped down the stairs. After I found Sam missing.”
“Do you need to go to the hospital?”
“I’ll go later.” She perched on the edge of the bed, her hands twisting the sheets beside her. “You will find him, Detective—” She broke off and looked up. “I’m sorry. What did you say your name was?”
“Call me Jay.”
Jay, a man in his early fifties, dragged a chair across the floor and positioned it in front of her. He was of average height, about thirty pounds overweight, with thinning gray hair. His brown eyes looked tired and the shadows beneath them were etched with deep wrinkles, suggesting he had witnessed too many terrible things. Nevertheless, they were kind eyes.
“The first seventy-two hours are critical, Ms. O’Connell. The more you can tell me, the more we have to go on.”
She hissed in a slow breath. “I’m ready.”
He pulled out a notebook and pen. “You were in the house alone?”
She nodded. “Philip was… working late.”
“What time did you go to bed?”
“Eleven forty-five.”
“You said a noise woke you. What time was that?”
“Twelve thirty.”
Jay scribbled a few notes in the notebook, then looked up. “What did you do?”
“I went to open my bedroom door, but I heard something.”
“What?”
“A clock ticking.” She paused. “Or at least I thought it was. But we don’t have a clock in the hall. Philip hates clocks. Ticking ones.”
She knew she was rambling, but she didn’t care.
“Maybe if I had turned on the light the first time…” Her gaze wandered around the room and landed on Sam’s photo beside the bed.