Page 9 of Silence of the Missing

I wanted to protect him.

And how did this person know my name? How did he know where to find me? Was he really who he said he was? And if not, how did he know about Jeb?

Once the furor around his disappearance died down, Jeb had faded into tragic obscurity. He was never national news, just one of the thousands of kids who go missing every year.

The questions could drive me insane. His presence, close enough to touch, could drive me insane. And here I was, on a quiet morning in my boring home, wanting nothing more than to sip a cup of tea and read my newest Stephen King book.

The apple cart was truly upset.

I worried that Marc would be home soon. He’d wonder who this stranger standing in our living room was. Jeb’s disappearance, back in the summer of ’86, was a subject I didn’t think I’d ever broached with him. The mystery loomed large through the rest of my teens, of course, but once I’d gone away to Ohio State, gotten my degree and moved to Chicago, I had to admit, my thoughts of Jeb and what had happened that summer at last faded, only revived when I faced a reminder, like Fourth of July fireworks or the curve of a slow-moving river. Or the disappearance of yet another innocent soul…

“Could we sit down?” Jeb interrupted my thoughts. “I just want to talk. I won’t take too much of your time.”

“Sorry. You have to understand—I’m a little frazzled.”

“Of course.” He smiled and edged a bit closer.

“Come on.” I led him more into the condo. He took a seat on the couch. I sat opposite, eyeing him.What do I do in a situation like this? Do I start a pot of coffee brewing? Do I breakout the blueberry scones in the pantry?The thoughts made me laugh.

“What’s funny?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. That was hysteria,” I replied honestly. “Whoareyou? What are you doing here? Forgive me if I’m having trouble believing who you say you are. It just doesn’t seem possible.”

His eyes took on a faraway cast—he was thinking. He didn’t speak for a long time. Making up a story? What could his angle possibly be? Marc and I were doing okay, but we were far from rich, so financial gain was out.

He repeated the stuff he’d said outside, as though if he said it enough, it would ring true in my ears. “I told you who I am—Jeb. Jeb Kleber. We knew each other as boys back in St. Clair, Ohio. Your mom was named Trudy. You lived in a little green-shingled house in the east end of town. You had a little dog, white, fluffy.” He cocked his head and squinched his eyes together. “Its name was, um—” He snapped his fingers and smiled. “Vanilla!”

I covered my face with my hands. This was way too much to absorb. How could he possibly know all this stuff? And even more concerning—if he reallywasJeb, why was he surfacingnow? Why hadn’t he gotten in touch long before?

My gut churned. “So where have you been all these years? What happened that night? You literally vanished into thin air.” I leaned forward. “Answer me those questions and maybe I can begin to believe you’re really Jeb.”

“Have you heard the phrase, ‘truth is stranger than fiction?’”

“Who hasn’t?”

“You might have trouble believing me and I wouldn’t blame you. For one, I did come back to St. Clair, many years ago. Like a lot of folks in our hometown, my dad had ended up with cancer—lung—and my mom was a wreck when he passed away, after a long and painful decline. I don’t know that she ever got over him being gone. Far as I could tell, she didn’t even want to see me. She was good with me being dead, if not buried.”

He swallowed, and I was aware he was holding emotion back. “I guess I forgive her. She’d made peace with my death so long ago that it was too much of a shock, having me back. She couldn’t seem to quite get herself to a place where my return was normal, let alone joyful. I think it was just too much.”

I could understand, although I didn’t voice my feelings aloud.

“How long ago was that?”

“Fifteen years ago or so?” He glanced down at the cracked cement at our feet. “I guess I understood—me being back was too much of a shock, especially after dad’s death so close to my return.”

His answers weren’t setting my mind at ease. No, they were actually causing more confusion, more cognitive dissonance.

I rose and moved to the window overlooking our street, Wolcott. Down below, things were relatively quiet for an urban neighborhood. I always loved our view—on the corner was a large Victorian turn of the century house with a big wraparound porch. Other turn-of-the century apartment buildings, now condos, stood north and south on our block and several adjoining ones. The trees lining our street were mature, ancient, most of them maples. It would be almost bucolic if it weren’t for the cars crowding both sides, bumper to bumper. When it was nearly impossible to find a parking place in a neighborhood, bucolic flew out the window.

That was Chicago for you.

Down the street a ways, I spied our little silver Prius pulling into a coveted spot. I murmured, “My husband’s home.” I watched as it tapped bumpers with the car in front of it and behind it, which was the giveaway that my husband Marc had gotten back from the gym. How would I explain this man in our house? Would Marc think he’d caught me at something? The thought was laughable. We were well past jealousy. We’d done the whole checking each other’s phones and internet histories, and unfounded suspicions early in our relationship. After more than a decade together, we’d finally learned to trust and have faith in each other.

Marc got out of the car and leaned across the seat to grab the blue and gray backpack he used as a gym bag. I didn’t turn away as he made his way up the street, so much about him familiar—the slight limp from a skateboarding accident when he was a teenager, the dark, wavy hair now salted, the reflection of the sun on the lenses of his tortoiseshell-framed round glasses. He looked fit and trim in his jeans and tank top, a man much younger than fifty-three. At least in my eyes…

I felt more than heard Jeb leave. There was a disturbance in the air behind me, almost as though a draft had managed its way inside, despite our windows being shut against the heat.

When the back door of the kitchen squeaked open and then closed, I turned.

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