Chapter 4 - The Hunt in the Dark
"Eli!" Drew screamed, his voice breaking as he threw himself toward the open window, leaning out into the crisp, dark night. "Eli!"
Only the rustling of autumn leaves and the distant hum of traffic on the main avenue answered him.
I stood in the doorway, staring at my ruined hospital bag lying on the bed. The baby's tiny hand-knitted going-home sweater lay on the pillow, its pink yarn pulled and unraveling in long, messy loops. My birth plan papers were shredded into tiny pieces, fluttering in the breeze coming from the window.
A sharp, sudden cramp seized my lower abdomen. I gasped, grabbing the doorframe for support as my knees buckled slightly.
"Megan!" Drew turned around, his face pale as paper. He rushed over and caught my elbow. "Are you having contractions?"
"It's... it's just stress," I wheezed, breathing through my nose until the tightening sensation slowly ebbed away. "Drew, he jumped off the low roof onto the deck. He's nine years old, it's pitch black outside, and he thinks his mother is waiting for him!"
"I'm calling the police," Drew said, his hands shaking so violently he could barely tap his phone screen. "I'm calling 911."
"Call them," I urged, stepping back into the hallway. "Tell them a nine-year-old child ran away from home in a emotional crisis. Tell them about Vanessa. Give them her car description, her name, everything."
While Drew frantically paced the hallway speaking to the 911 dispatcher, describing Eli's dark blue hoodie, jeans, and light-up sneakers, I walked back down the stairs. My body was screaming at me to lie down, to elevate my feet, to breathe, but my brain was operating on pure adrenaline.
I knew this neighborhood better than Drew did. I was the one who walked our golden retriever through these streets every afternoon before my doctor put me on bed rest. I knew where the kids hid. I knew where the old construction site was near the creek, and I knew where the neighborhood park's wooden fortress sat in the dark.
Eli was terrified, manipulated, and small. He wouldn't run toward the busy main road. He would run somewhere he felt safe—or somewhere he thought his mother could find him.
Drew ran down the stairs, grabbing his heavy jacket from the hall closet. "The police have dispatched two units. They're setting up a perimeter near the elementary school. I'm going out on foot with a flashlight."
"Check the creek, Drew," I said, leaning heavily against the kitchen island. "Check the old treehouse behind the Miller house."
"Megan, you stay here," Drew pleaded, coming over to take my face in his warm, frantic hands. "Please. Look at you, you're pale. You can barely stand. If you go into labor right now while I'm out in the woods—"
"I have my phone," I said firmly, pushing his hands away gently. "I am staying in the house. But if the police find him, Drew, do not yell at him. Do not mention Vanessa. Just hold him."
Drew's eyes filled with tears. He leaned down and pressed his forehead against mine. "I ruined this, Megan. I pushed everything under the rug because I was terrified of facing the truth about my ex-wife. I let my son fall apart right under my nose."
"We will fix it," I whispered, though my heart was pounding with terror. "Just find him."
Drew nodded, turned, and sprinted out the front door, slamming it behind him.
The house fell deathly silent again.
I stood in the entryway for a long moment, listening to the ticking of the grandfather clock in the living room. The air felt cold, empty, and heavy.
I walked slowly into the living room, heading toward the large bay window that overlooked the backyard. Outside, the yard was a dark sea of shadows. Our wooden fence bordered a small patch of protected neighborhood woods—a dense strip of pine trees and thick bushes that separated our subdivision from the old abandoned golf course.
I reached for the curtain string to pull it shut, but then something caught my eye.
A tiny beam of light flashed once, twice, deep inside the dark pine trees just twenty feet beyond our back fence.
It wasn't a police flashlight. It was the faint, rhythmic glow of an iPad screen.
My heart leaped into my throat.
He hadn't run miles away toward the main road. He was hiding right in our own backyard, sitting in the damp dirt behind the fence, waiting for a mother who was hundreds of miles away in a restaurant in Chicago.
I looked at my phone. Drew was already out of range, searching down the street near the school. The police units were patrolling the main roads. If I called Drew, his loud shouting and running footsteps would flush Eli deeper into the woods before Drew could reach him.
I grabbed my long fleece cardigan off the couch, wrapped it around my huge bump, slipped into my slip-on shoes, and unlocked the back sliding glass door.
The cool autumn air hit my face like a slap of icy water. The grass was slick with evening dew. I walked slowly, carefully, resting my weight on my heels to keep my balance as I navigated the slippery lawn toward the wooden gate.
"Eli?" I called out softly, keeping my voice gentle, steady, and entirely free of anger. "Eli, sweetie?"
The faint blue light in the trees instantly snapped off.
I opened the squeaky wooden gate and stepped into the shadowy pine needles. The ground was uneven, roots jutting out like traps in the dark. I held my belly with both hands, taking slow, deliberate steps.
"Eli, I know you're here," I said, stopping beside a thick pine trunk. "I saw your iPad light. I'm not mad at you. I swear I'm not mad."
A small sob echoed from behind a thick cluster of blackberry bushes six feet away.
"Go away!" a small, shaky voice squeaked out from the dark. "Leave me alone! Mom is coming to get me!"
I slowly walked toward the bush, holding onto a nearby branch to steady myself. Sitting in the wet dirt, curled into a tight ball with his knees pulled up to his chest, was Eli. He was holding his iPad like a shield, his small face covered in dirt tears, his blue hoodie soaked with dew.
"Eli," I said gently, lowering myself down until I was kneeling in the damp pine needles beside him. My knees protested sharply, and another dull ache bloomed across my lower back, but I ignored it. "Your mom isn't coming."
"She is!" Eli sobbed, glaring at me through dark, wet eyes. "She said so! She said if I delayed the baby, she would come take me to Chicago! She promised!"
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I looked at this small, broken nine-year-old boy, and all the anger, all the resentment over the torn nursery and the shredded hospital bag, completely vanished. My heart shattered for him.
"Oh, Eli," I whispered, reaching out a trembling hand. "I am so, so sorry she lied to you."
