My phone buzzes at 2:13 a.m.—a number I don’t recognize. I let it ring. Later, in the pale morning light, I see there’s a new voicemail. The voice is my son, Daniel. He’s whispering, his breath jagged, like he’s hiding. “Mom, don’t tell Avery. I need time. Promise me.”
Here’s the thing: Avery called yesterday, sobbing. She says Daniel vanished three days ago. She’s filed a missing person report, pasted his photo everywhere online. I said I’d help, but I never told her about the voicemail. Because Daniel said not to.
