Chapter 2: Disappearance

A month later, my son Brian got his entrance exam results. Against all odds, he’d scored high enough for regular high school—a miracle in our house. I asked what reward he wanted. He just grinned and said, “Take me to the mall, Dad. I wanna play in the inflatable castle—like when I was little.”

I sighed, but took him anyway. The scent of Auntie Anne’s pretzels drifted from the food court, and the sound of the high school marching band practicing outside echoed faintly through the glass. While Brian played, I stepped out to buy cigarettes. When I got back, he was gone.

I searched every inch of the mall—upstairs, downstairs, the arcade, even the bathrooms. Nothing. He had his phone with him, but every call went straight to voicemail. I called my wife. Carol’s voice was tense: “Wait, I thought you had him at the mall. He’s not with you?”

A cold weight settled in my gut. In my job, the thing you fear most is someone coming after your family. Thirty years as a cop, and I’ve put away enough monsters to fill a prison wing: murderers, kidnappers, predators, traffickers. Their faces flickered through my mind like a cursed slideshow. A shiver crawled up my spine.

I dialed my partner, Jeff Wallace, and told him to bring the team. The officers split up to search while Jeff and I pored over the security footage. We spotted a shadowy figure lurking behind the inflatable castle. The back door was right there. In the alley, we found Brian’s broken keychain, his phone smashed, and a length of scaffolding pipe—clear signs of a struggle.

The pigsty reeked of ammonia and fear. Forensics lifted prints off the pipe. The database spat out a match: David Carter. I remembered him all too well. Four years ago, I arrested him for sexual assault. After he got out, he opened a scaffolding shop in the next county. His son? Alex Carter—the very kid who’d jumped a month ago. Now he was our prime suspect.

We hauled David Carter in. He barely blinked. I should’ve recused myself, but I didn’t care. I used every trick in the book, but he wouldn’t budge. Time was running out—half an hour left before the 12-hour limit expired. If we didn’t charge him, we’d have to let him walk.

Desperate, I shut off the surveillance and barked at Jeff to get out. He hesitated. “You gonna do something stupid?”

“Get out! Now!”

Jeff held his ground, but then David Carter spoke, his voice low: “Officer, you go. I want to talk to Detective Miller. Alone.”

Now it was just the two of us. “Detective Miller, long time no see.”

“David Carter, what do you want? Where’s my son?”

He leaned in. “You care about your boy. But what about mine? Have you figured out why Alex really died?”

I snapped back, “He took his own life. The hospital confirmed depression. You saw the prescription records.”

David’s eyes narrowed. “Even if he was depressed, why die during the exam?”

I had no answer. He pressed on: “Do you really think your son passed that test on his own?”

My heart clenched. “What are you getting at?”

His face twisted. “You have a son. Maybe you’ll understand what it’s like to lose a child. Didn’t you ever wonder why a kid with no pressure would kill himself? Shouldn’t someone pay?”

We’d considered bullying before, but the victim was gone, and his parents never pressed charges. Easier to let it go. But David Carter never let it go. He wanted justice—or revenge. And his target was my son.

Twenty-five minutes left. David was calm. This was all part of his plan. I took a deep breath, lit a Marlboro, and offered him one. He accepted.

“Let’s talk about the exam,” I said.

After Alex died, I’d gone through his things and found his note. It read:

Dad, I don’t want to die. But I have no choice. You and I are both outcasts, misfits. You told me stories of Benjamin Franklin, Nathan Hale, Socrates—to stay true to myself, not to live for others’ approval. But—Nathan Hale was hanged. Socrates drank poison. Franklin was never truly understood. Dad, you were wrong. We aren’t sages. We’re patients. We have Asperger’s. You never saw a psychologist, so you don’t know. It’s a form of autism. We both live in our own worlds. Counselor Grant explained it. I tried to change, to fit in. They pretended to accept me, but only used me to help them cheat. When things got messy, they turned on me. I refused to help, and they started bullying me, trying to break me.

In the cafeteria, they’d pretend to invite me, then stick thumbtacks on my chair. The pain made me want to scream, but they shushed me. They shoved me into the girls’ bathroom, then accused me of being a pervert. One of them stole his dad’s handcuffs—locked me in a pigsty all night. Later, they found my secret. They threatened to expose me unless I helped them cheat. I had no choice. Their worst subject was math. So I helped with math. But with strict proctors, how could cheating work? Unless—someone created chaos. The best chaos is a student jumping from a building. While the teachers are distracted, pass the answers around. This secret is everything to me. I’ll protect it with my life. Besides, I don’t want to live anymore. Let the entrance exam be my last performance. I’ll get the best grades, then disappear, like fireworks at their brightest.

Dad, you’ve been to prison once. Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t worry about who did it. Don’t worry about the secret. At the end of the math problem, I left a sequence of numbers. In those numbers is what I most want to tell you.

I was stunned. My mind reeled. My own son—the boy I’d sworn to protect—was no better than the monsters I locked up. Shame burned through me, sharper than any wound. My handcuffs had been taken by Brian to play with. He’d brought them back, but they still smelled faintly of pig. I’d even smacked him for it. I never imagined he’d used them on Alex Carter. Before the exam, Brian bragged that he was sitting behind Alex, so he’d pass for sure. I’d written it off as a joke. I never dreamed he’d force Alex to help him cheat.

But something still didn’t add up. I called Jeff Wallace and had him bring me Alex Carter’s autopsy report. I read it in front of David Carter. No old injuries—just the trauma from the fall. I threw the report at David. “You’re lying! The exam was thorough. There were no old injuries.”

He finished his cigarette, spat out the butt, and looked at me with a twisted grin. “Is there always evidence of bullying?”

I snapped. I yanked out my handcuffs, clenching them tight. “David Carter, don’t play games. Where’s Brian? Talk, or you’ll regret it.”

He just grinned, blood on his teeth. “Oh, the upright Detective Miller, ready to break the rules for his own kid? If you’re a man, hit me. If not, you’re a coward—no wonder your son bullies the weak.”

I lost it. I punched him hard. The cuffs split his cheek open; blood poured out. He licked it, smiling. “Detective Miller, the secret to your son’s disappearance is in that string of numbers. If you can’t solve it, let’s make a deal.”

“What deal?”

“Clue for evidence.”

“What evidence do you want?”

“The audio and video of Captain Anderson interrogating me on March 25 and 27, 2000.”

Until now, I’d almost sympathized with him. If my own son had been driven to death, maybe I’d seek revenge too. But David Carter wasn’t the man I’d imagined. He was a scoundrel. A beast. “You want to use your son’s death to overturn your assault conviction?”

He glared at me. “Yeah. You convicted me on my confession. If you prove it was coerced, I walk.”

I stared at him. “You think any cop is dumb enough to coerce a suspect under surveillance?”

David Carter smirked. “Detective Miller, are you sure you didn’t?”

I said, “No.”

He leaned back. “Fine. I’ve given you your first clue. You weren’t calm. You didn’t listen. Think like me: if you were in my shoes, what would you do?”

I stared at the cuffs in my hand. Suddenly, it clicked. “You mean the pig farm?”

David Carter glanced at the clock. “Detective, your twelve hours are up. Let me go.”

I ignored him. Jeff and I rushed to the county’s only pig farm. The place was huge. We called in backup and searched every filthy corner. In the farthest pen, we found Brian’s watch, a pile of what looked like his feces, and a dark red stain. Forensics took samples. Brian had been held here. But where was he now?

We rushed back. David Carter was gone. I shouted, “Who let him go?”

Deputy Chief Anderson replied, stone-faced, “I did. Twelve hours were up. The law’s the law.”

I gritted my teeth. “Brian wasn’t at the pig farm. He must have moved him.”

Anderson asked, “Do you have direct evidence?”

“His fingerprint was on the pipe, wasn’t it?”

“Was it only his?”

Of course not. Scaffolding pipes are everywhere. Fingerprints too. Anderson was right. Forensics couldn’t pin it on him. I was desperate. “David Carter told me Brian was at the pig farm. We found his watch. That proves he knows. He’s our guy. Let’s get a warrant.”

Anderson shook his head. “Evidence? You turned off the surveillance. The prosecutor won’t go for it based on your word. Carter can deny everything.”

The world felt suddenly cold and hollow. I’d walked right into his trap. He’d made me break the rules, then revealed clues. Step by step, he’d set me up.

Anderson twisted the knife: “After you left, Carter reported that you assaulted him and demanded a medical exam. I sent Lisa with him. Miller, you’re in big trouble.”

As Anderson spoke, I felt the weight of the room press down on me. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting my shadow long against the grimy linoleum. In the hallway, police radios crackled and a file cabinet slammed shut—ordinary sounds that now felt threatening, as if the world itself was closing in. My knuckles still throbbed, the taste of adrenaline sharp in my mouth. Somewhere out there, my son was missing—and the last thing I had was time.