I glance up and notice the back door, with its intricate stained-glass window pane perfectly positioned for a breakin. This will be easier. I pull off my shirt and wrap my hand. I punch through the window, reach down for the doorknob and welcome myself into their kitchen. Greg is too cheap for security monitoring, another cut he shouldn’t have made, and he’ll be sorry. I find the designer knife set displayed on the counter in a wooden block and grab the large serrated knife. I pull out the stove, find the hose connecting the appliance to the gas line and easily cut through it, smiling when the familiar mercaptan chemical scent begins to fill the room. It doesn’t take me long to find a candle. I light it with my Frank’s grocery matches, bringing back such good memories of my time there waiting in line with the little people and the man with the yellow hands. I swallow and look around.
The candle looks lovely here, burning bright on the honed black granite island. I take a moment to appreciate the kid art tacked to the refrigerator door. A small handprint dipped in paint pushed onto construction paper to make the shape of a tulip. Precious. The little Boones are quite the artists, but not as good as my boys. I look around once more, appreciate the flickering candle and the strong smell coming from behind the Viking stove: only four burners compared to our six-top. But still, a nice brand. Kudos, Greg.
My work here is done.
Time to go home.
4:45 a.m.
31
I’m just half a block away and I still haven’t been able to figure out how to let Claudia know I’ll be coming in the door. No doubt she has set the alarm and I don’t want it going off and waking the entire neighborhood at almost five in the morning. There is about a minute before the thing blares, but that means I need to hope she hasn’t dead-bolted the back door, or the door to the garage.
There really isn’t a choice, though. I need to see my boys, get my boys. Take my boys. And no one is going to be able to stop me, that I can promise. Between the Boones’ house and ours there are plenty of streetlights illuminating the street, something missing in Lakeside, so it seems lighter, happier here. I will appreciate this place more now, I vow to myself. At least enjoy it until I sell. Enjoy the final hour here until we leave. I check my watch. There isn’t much time left before sunrise.
In the driveway I turn off the headlights. Again, I don’t want to scare Claudia by shining my headlights into the guest bedroom. Who knows how a druggie would react to that? Our guest room is above the garage, around the corner from the boys’ bedrooms. I decide against opening the garage door, as I know that sound will alert her. Instead, I will check the back door. She is lazy, Claudia. Perhaps she didn’t lock it at all.
I put the car in Park and get out of the car. It’s nice to be home. Slowly I walk to the back door. I take a moment to admire the green grass and the trimmed bushes, the tulips blooming in celebration of spring. I look to my right, at my parents’ former home, dark and filled with sleeping strangers. Good old Buck didn’t know that part of the story, I realize with a smile. He has underestimated me, as usual. He shouldn’t.
The alarm isn’t set. The light of the panel is green. This is brilliant news, even if it is news that would lead me to fire Claudia under normal circumstances. These aren’t normal circumstances so I’m grateful for her lack of competency, the druggie. I push the key into the lock and hear it click; I twist the knob and walk into my home. I flip on the back hall light and I’m momentarily thrown off by the simple fact that the back hall table, an expensive antique that was a gift from Mia’s parents, is gone. This is the spot where I place my keys every day after work. But it is not there. I am certain it was here this morning when we left.
This is odd. Why would Claudia move a table? I wonder. I walk slowly, quietly down the hall and arrive in the kitchen. Here, everything seems to be in order. I swallow a growing feeling of unrest, of concern. There is no mess here, no dishes. No signs of little kids. No blocks. No booster seat at the kitchen table.
Where is Sam’s booster seat? I leave the kitchen and head for the stairs, taking them two at a time. I start to go to the master bedroom, but think twice and instead quicken my steps to Mikey’s room. I quietly turn the handle of his closed bedroom door, and push it open gently.
The room is completely empty.
“What?” I say aloud before hurrying through the Jack-and-Jill bathroom connecting the boys’ rooms. I throw open the door to Sam’s room. It’s empty. No furniture, no Sam.
Where are my boys?
“Claudia!” I yell, marching to the guest room. There’s no one in the guest room, though. The door is open. The furnishings—furniture, lamps, paintings, even the small Picasso nude from Mia’s parents that we hung in the room to impress guests, everything—are gone.
I stand there, in the empty guest room, in shock. For a moment. I rub my hand through my hair before pulling my phone out of my pocket. I dial Mia’s number. My call rolls to voice mail.
“Mia, what have you done with my boys? Where is my furniture? My antiques? My artwork? Where is my Picasso? The Alice Schille beachscape on the wall, it’s gone, too. I need an explanation. Call me immediately,” I say. My voice is calm. I am in control. She will be as alarmed as I am. She will obey me.
I walk at last into the master bedroom. The bed is still there, as are the side tables. The walls are bare, gaping holes where art used to hang. The happy family portrait, the four of us posing in the gazebo at the lake, that was hanging just inside the door is missing, too. I touch the spot where it should be, where it always was. Who could have done such a thing? Violated our private spaces?
I storm into the walk-in closet. Only half of the room is full. All of Mia’s things are gone. On the bathroom counter there is a red envelope with Paul written on it in Mia’s writing. I grab it, feeling the thick texture. This is a love note, of course. And, perhaps, an explanation. Maybe we are moving somewhere together, and this is all a big surprise.
I tear open the envelope and pull out the letter.
Dear Paul,
By now I’m sure you’re anxious to know what’s going on. It’s hard being one step behind, I know. Trust me. Because of you, I’ve learned. So welcome home, and welcome to your new reality.
The boys are safe, in hiding with my parents, and so am I. As you have been told, there must be no attempt to find me, or the children, and no action threatened or taken against anyone who helped me. All we want is to live in peace, away from you. This day, everything that was orchestrated, was the only way I could make sure of that.
Since you are reading this, you have already signed the agreement. I cannot be sure what else has happened. If you have hurt me, or Buck, my parents will press charges. They know what you are capable of doing. I’ve told them everything I know. And it is a lot. I’m not going to waste time here outlining everything we’ve discovered about you, your past and your present. You know who you are, what you’ve done. I can promise you one thing, though: your future will not include us.
Please know that the boys and I are out of your life forever.
Don’t lie anymore, Paul. So many people are watching you now.
Mia