11
The following day, there was still no sign of Sam.
Jay called to say that the clown shoe was a dead end.
“And we got nothing off the sheet of paper,” he added.
There were no prints, no DNA, nothing to lead them to the kidnapper.
“We’re trying to trace the manufacturer of the shoe,” he said. “Maybe we’ll find the store he bought it from.”
Sadie’s heart sank. “But that won’t do any good if he paid with cash.”
“Yeah, but we might get lucky. The store may have a security camera. We just need a break, Sadie. One solid lead and we’ll find Sam.”
All day long she wracked her brain trying to think of ways to help the police locate Sam without having to describe the man she had seen, but nothing came to her, so she ventured outside and plastered more posters of Sam all over the neighborhood, until his eyes followed her everywhere. She knocked on doors, asked questions about a strange vehicle in the neighborhood and showed Sam’s photograph. But no one had seen a thing.
She even tried to rely on fate. It had become a habitual joke all these years, something to play with, like we’ll buy the house if the previous deal falls through. Or I’ll know the time is right to write something different when I’m given a sign. Fate had been her best friend back then, but now that she really needed divine intervention, it had abandoned her.
The next day, she waited by the phone. By suppertime, it hadn’t rung, so she called Jay’s number.
“Sadie, we don’t have any news yet. Sorry.”
“You told me the first three days were crucial,” she said, trying to keep the panic from her voice. “Why is it taking so long?”
“We’re doing everything we can,” he assured her. “We’re hoping someone in your neighborhood will call in. Someone had to have seen something.”
Yeah, I did.
Although the words were on the tip of her tongue, she just couldn’t spit them out. She feared for Sam. She had no doubt that The Fog would kill him, just like he promised. And there was no way she could live with Sam’s death on her hands.
A week went by. A week of pure hell.
Sadie wanted nothing more than to slip away into a cloud of drugged oblivion. But the stubborn part of her kept her heading out each morning to replace the ripped, blurred, rain-splattered posters of Sam.
On the tenth morning, she remained in bed, refusing to get up or eat anything. She’d even ignored the incessant ringing of the phone, although Leah had called twice and left frantic messages on the answering machine.
Sadie didn’t want to talk to anyone.
Except Sam.
She missed him fiercely, and not a moment passed when she didn’t think of him. Was he alive? Was he being abused?
The angry X’s scratched across the days on the calendar beside her bed glared back at her.
“Ten days…”
Sam’s picture was pressed up against her. She peeled it away, noticing the red imprint the frame had left on her arm. Placing the picture back on the nightstand, she reached into the drawer beside her bed and removed the binder—the one with the drawing of The Fog.
She eased it open.
A sharp gasp escaped when her eyes latched onto the face of the man who had taken Sam. She slipped the paper from the binder and rested it on top of the duvet.
“When they find you, I’ll make sure you rot in prison for the rest of your life.”
It was a promise she intended on pursuing, no matter what it took. This stranger had entered her home, assaulted her and stolen her son. What horrific crime had she committed to warrant such terror in her life?
Her eyes flitted across the room toward Philip’s sock drawer. She experienced the familiar pang of need and the relentless voice she had long ago silenced began its litany of reasons why a drink would be indisputably justified.
Just one small drink.
She shook her head and looked down at the picture of The Fog, but her eyes were drawn against her will back to the drawer that promised instant relief.
To calm my nerves. No one would blame me.
She shivered as a draft wafted over her.
“You’re awake.”
Philip stood in the doorway.
She stuffed the drawing under the covers and was about to read him the riot act for sneaking up on her when she noticed something peculiar. Her husband was fully clothed, ready for work. And wearing the same suit as yesterday.
“You stayed out all night?” she asked, stunned.
His shoulders lifted in a nervous twitch. “Sadie—”
“Don’t! Don’t make up any more excuses. We both know where you were and who you were with. I would think the least you could do is be honest for once in your pathetic, miserable life.” She wondered if the expression on her face matched the sour, rotten taste in her mouth.
Without a word, Philip turned on one heel and disappeared.
As soon as he was gone, she flung back the duvet and smoothed the drawing before placing it at the back of the binder, which she slid into the drawer of the nightstand. Curling up in a fetal position with Sam’s photo clasped close to her heart, she drifted into a restless sleep and stayed there all day.
The next morning, Philip officially moved into his office.
At first, she was relieved. Then anger consumed her. While she went to bed each night—alone and lonely—he stayed out until the wee hours of the morning. Part of her resented him, and part of her was thankful that he was so busy. They sometimes passed in the hallway and gave each other chilly nods. But they said very little. What was there to say?
Later that afternoon, she called Jay and was transferred to his voicemail.
“I just want to know if you’ve heard anything,” she said. “Do you have any new leads? It’s been almost two weeks. Please call me back.” She hung up, shoulders slumped in despair.
Sam’s disappearance had left her barren. Childless. Loveless. And full of agonizing remorse. Every minute, she battled with her secret. Should she talk or stay quiet? What if the police could find Sam before he got hurt? Sometimes she was a breath away from confessing that she had seen The Fog, albeit vaguely. And that she had drawn him.
When Jay called her back, his voice was weary. “We have nothing new. Sorry, Sadie. None of your neighbors heard or saw anything.”
“What about the Amber Alert?”
“We’ve had nothing but false leads so far.”
“Like what?”
Jay sighed. “One man reported strange lights over Edmonton the night Sam was taken. He swears Sam was abducted by iridescent, tentacled extraterrestrials. And a woman in Calgary, who swears she’s psychic, said he was taken by a one-legged woman in a flowered dress.”
He told her that Sam had been sighted at Vancouver’s Stanley Park, at Niagara Falls, in Texas—even as far as Mexico. In the end, all reports were discredited.
“Thanks anyway,” she said before hanging up.
Sinking into a chair, she fought back tears of frustration. Sam had vanished from the face of the earth.
Except I keep seeing him.
She saw him everywhere. The backyard, Sobeys, the bank, even in the back seat of the car. Sometimes she could swear she heard his voice, which was ridiculous since Sam didn’t speak.
Philip was no help at all. He kept telling her that Sam was more than likely dead.
“The bastard probably buried him somewhere,” he’d said just the other morning.
She knew Sam was alive. She could feel him, sense him.
Philip’s heavy footsteps thumped overhead, reminding her that there was some unfinished business to attend to. There was one thing she wanted from her husband. Something she’d kept putting off.
“Just ask him,” she muttered.