Michael had been twenty-four when he vanished. I was twenty-nine. One Friday in October, my mother called asking if I’d heard from him. I hadn’t. By Sunday we were calling everyone he knew. By Monday, hospitals. His car turned up in another town, locked and empty. No Michael. There were searches, flyers, false sightings, years of flinching at every unidentified body on the evening news. My mother never stopped waiting. She died seven years ago without ever knowing what happened to her son. And now a stranger was standing in my kitchen wearing his necklace.
I needed to know where he’d gotten it, but not in front of Tyler — not yet. “Tyler said you like old things,” I said. Tyler frowned. “I did?” “I thought you did.” Noah laughed awkwardly. “I guess?” “I have something downstairs you might like.” Tyler, confused, went to grab drinks from the fridge, and I led Noah toward the basement stairs. Each step down felt heavier than the last.
