Page 8 of Middle of the Night

I gingerly place the notebook and pen on the nightstand and check the clock. A little before four. Still a chance to get at least a few hours of sleep.

Yet when I close my eyes, my thoughts drift back to the true-crimewebsite I’d been reading. While better written and researched than others I’ve seen, it still didn’t tell the whole story. For one, it insinuated that Billy’s abduction came out of nowhere. That the twenty-four hours before he vanished were like any other day that summer. That there were no storm clouds on the horizon, portending imminent doom, or events in the neighborhood that, in hindsight, foreshadowed tragedy.

Most of that is correct. Ithadbeen a typical New Jersey summer. Sunny. Lazy. A little muggy for my mother’s taste, but pleasant.

Yet there’s more to the story. There always is. In truth, the day Billy vanished had been anything but ordinary.

And I knew something was off the moment I woke up.

Friday, July 15, 1994

8:36 a.m.

Ethan senses something’s wrong even before his eyes snap open. Lying in a tangle of sheets intermittently kicked off and pulled back on in his sleep, he hears Barkley pawing at the bedroom door he’s only recently been allowed to close at night. Before this summer, his mother made him leave it open so she could easily check on him during the night, making sure he wasn’t staying up too late. Something Ethan swore was no longer necessary. Only after an assist from his father—“He’s ten, Joyce. Give the boy some privacy.”—did his mother relent. Since the end of the school year, he’s been allowed to close his door each night before going to bed.

Now, though, as his beagle continues to sniffle and scratch, begging to be let out, Ethan reconsiders his decision. Maybe, he thinks, leaving the door open another year isn’t such a bad idea after all. At least then Barkley could come and go as he pleases, allowing Ethan to sleep in.

As he kicks off the sheets and slides out of bed, Ethan notices the unmistakable scent of pancakes and bacon slipping through the crack beneath the door. No wonder his dog wants to be let out. The smell of his favorite breakfast makes Ethan eager to leave, too.

He opens the door, letting Barkley bolt down the stairs to the kitchen. Ethan’s about to do the same when he’s stopped by a realization as sudden as it is confusing.

Today is Friday. His mother only makes pancakes and bacon on Saturdays. Why would his father be doing it this morning while his mother’s at work?

The answer comes to Ethan when he enters the kitchen, finding not just his father but his mother, too. A rarity for weekdays so far this summer. Since she started working, his mother has been gone by the time he wakes up most mornings during the week. A strange reversal from how it was during the rest of the year, when his father left early. His dad taught a few summer classes, but those weren’t until the afternoon, leaving him to fix Ethan’s breakfast.

Even more strange was the night before, when Ethan’s mother returned to the office two hours after dinner. He and his father had been watching a rerun ofThe Simpsonswhen she came into the living room, car keys jangling in her hand, and said, “I need to go to the office real quick. I left something there.”

Ethan, only half paying attention, heard his father say something to the effect of “Now? Can’t it wait until morning?”

“I’ll be just a minute,” his mother said before hurrying toward the garage.

It ended up taking more than thirty minutes. Ethan knows because by the time she’d returned,The Simpsonswas over, and an episode ofThe Sinbad Showhad started. Now he wonders if her presence here this morning has something to do with her leaving last night.

“Morning, sport,” his father says from behind that morning’sNew York Times. At his elbow sits a steaming mug of coffee and a plate stacked with pancakes.

Standing at the stove, Ethan’s mother says nothing.

While it’s never been spelled out for him, Ethan knows deep down that he’s had a mostly carefree existence. He lives in a nice housesurrounded by other nice houses, in a nice neighborhood made up of other nice neighborhoods. He gets whatever toys he wants, even if he’s forced to wait until Christmas or his birthday to receive them. His parents buy a new car every two years. They’ve been to Disney World twice. On the rare occasions he worries, it’s either about something trivial—an upcoming math test, getting picked last in gym class—or in the form of vague, abstract fears. Death. War. Quicksand.

But seeing his mother in her apron, spatula in hand, silently cooking like it’s Saturday when it definitely is not, fills Ethan with an anxiety he’s rarely experienced in his young life.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing’s wrong, sport,” his father says, still hidden behind the newspaper.

“But you’re both home.”

“Why is that so unusual?” His father at last lowers theTimesto give what Ethan has come to know as the Professor Look. Calm face. Probing eyes framed by tortoiseshell glasses. Left eyebrow raised so high it resembles the curve of a question mark. “This is where we live.”

“You know what I mean,” Ethan says, scooting his chair forward as his mother sets breakfast in front of him.

“He wants to know why I’m not at work,” she says to his father, as if Ethan’s not there at all.

“Are you sick?” Ethan asks. “Is that why you’re home?”

“I don’t work there anymore.”

“Why not?”

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