THE BOY BENEATH THE FLOORBOARDS

I abandoned the vent and sprinted toward the French doors leading to the main hallway. I twisted the handle. It wouldn't budge. I rattled it with all my strength, throwing my shoulder against the heavy wood, but it was useless.

"Who is out there?" I roared, pounding on the glass panes. "Open this door!"

Through the frosted glass, a shadow moved—tall, broad-shouldered, moving quickly toward the garage.

"Greg," Meredith whimpered from the corner, sliding down the wall until she was sitting on the floor.

Her husband. Greg was supposed to be in Chicago on a business trip. He hadn't been at the family barbecue the day Noah disappeared. He had always been distant, a quiet man who kept to himself and managed hedge funds.

"Why is he locking us in?" I demanded, turning on her. "Meredith, tell me right now, or so help me God I will break this window and drag you out through the glass."

Lily was sobbing now, huddled by the fireplace. I rushed over, scooping her into my arms and burying her face in my shoulder. "It's okay, baby. Daddy's here. I've got you."

Meredith looked up, tears streaming down her perfectly made-up face.

"We couldn't have them, Caleb," she sobbed, rocking back and forth. "Five miscarriages. Ten years of IVF. We had nothing. And you and Caroline... you had everything. Noah was so beautiful. Greg just... he just wanted to help him."

"Help him?" I yelled, my voice cracking. "Noah wasn't in danger!"

"Greg thought he was," Meredith cried. "He convinced me Caroline was drinking again. He said she left Noah near the highway that day. He said he brought him here to keep him safe until Caroline got help. But then the police came... and the searches... and Greg said if we gave him back, they'd put us in prison."

My blood ran cold. My own sister. She had watched my wife waste away from grief. She had brought us groceries while hiding our son fifty feet away.

But something didn't make sense.

"Noah is eight years old," I said, my mind racing. "He knows who we are. He knows his name. How did you keep him quiet for over a year?"

Meredith looked away, her shame so palpable it made me sick. "Greg's brother is a pharmacist. He got him... medicines. To keep him calm. To make him sleep."

A wave of absolute nausea hit me. They had drugged my little boy.

Suddenly, the roar of a car engine echoed from the garage. Tires screeched against the pavement.

"He's taking him!" I yelled.

I grabbed the heavy iron fire poker again. I didn't aim for the lock; I aimed directly for the center of the frosted glass door. I swung it like a baseball bat. The glass shattered outward in a rain of jagged shards.

I carefully passed Lily through the broken pane, setting her down in the hallway, then climbed through myself.

"Stay here," I told Lily, kissing her forehead.

I ran down the hall toward the unfinished wing. The door was wide open. I burst into the room.

It wasn't an unfinished space. It was a makeshift, soundproofed bedroom. There were toys, a small television, and a mattress on the floor.

The bed was empty. The sheets were still warm.

I fell to my knees, grasping at the blankets, trying to find any trace of him. My hand brushed against something stiff tucked under the pillow.

I pulled it out. It was a piece of thick drawing paper.

Noah had always loved to draw. But this wasn't a child's happy doodle. It was a frantic, dark sketch in heavy charcoal. It showed a tall man holding a little boy's hand. But the man didn't have Greg's face.