Page 78 of Middle of the Night

But I also think I’ve earned the right to ask. I was there when it happened. In that tent, inches from Billy. I deserve if not answers, then at least the opportunity to seek them out.

“Did either of you do something to Billy that night?”

I huff after saying it. A small, guilt-ridden exhalation riding the words like a punctuation mark. It’s made even more noticeable by my parents’ silence, which lasts seconds but feels like hours.

“Ethan,” my mother says, the disappointment reverberating through those two terse syllables making me feel like the shittiest son in the world. “How could you ask such a thing?”

“It’s okay, Joyce,” my father says.

“It’snotokay.”

“He’s naturally curious. He’s not accusing us of anything.”

My mother sniffs. “It certainly feels that way.”

“It doesn’t mean I think you killed Billy,” I say. “It just means I need to hear you say that you didn’t.”

“I understand, sport,” my father says, his voice patient and his expression calm. “We both do. And I swear to you that neither your mother nor myself had anything to do with what happened to Billy.”

I exhale, releasing the breath I hadn’t known I was holding in.

I believe him.

Truly and deeply.

“Thank you,” I say, on the verge of tears for reasons I can’t quite fathom. Maybe it’s relief. Or guilt. Or some combination thereof. Or maybe it’s simply because seeing my parents in a different home in a different state makes me miss them. I lower the phone so they can’t see me wipe away the tears that are threatening to fall. When I raise itagain, I’m all business, ready to tackle why I called them in the first place.

“There’s a reason I had to ask. Billy’s remains were found on the grounds of the Hawthorne Institute.” I pause to register my mother’s look of surprise. “I know you worked there for part of that summer. What went on at that place?”

“I was just a secretary.” My mother looks to my father, who gives a nod, urging her to continue. “But one night, I saw something. Something I wasn’t supposed to see. So they fired me.”

I remember when she lost her job because it was clear how much it upset her. I can still recall, with vivid clarity, the moment I walked into the kitchen to find her literally crying on Ashley’s shoulder.

There is, of course, another reason it stands out in my mind.

That was the day Billy was taken.

“Mom, what did you see?”

My mother shakes her head. “I can’t tell you. He swore me to secrecy. He made me sign something promising I wouldn’t tell anyone. Not even your father. He said I’d be sued if I did.”

Another memory slithers into my thoughts. Something the man in the suit said as we fled the mausoleum. Something intended not for the rest of us but solely for Billy.

I told you yesterday to stay away.

The ever-increasing ticking in my heart switches from fear to an unwieldy combo of dread and excitement. Billy was on the institute grounds the same day my mother saw something so sinister they fired her. Is it possible Billy saw something similar? Did someone at the Hawthorne Institute go to even greater lengths to silence him?

“This is important, Mom,” I say. “I need you to tell me what happened.”

There’s an extended moment of silence as my mother considers it. Her face gets distorted, her mouth twisting as if she’s physically trying to keep words from coming out of it. She looks to my father forreassurance, which he offers without hesitation. Seeing it brings a punch of sadness that I once had a relationship as loving as theirs. Now it’s gone.

“A ritual,” she eventually says.

I lean forward, peering into the phone. “What kind of ritual?”

“I don’t know, Ethan. But it was terrifying.”

The rest of the story rushes forth like water from a broken dam. For twenty unbroken minutes my mother talks, telling me about her job, her coworker Margie, the strange place that was the Hawthorne Institute.

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