“Are you hurt? Is Cole all right?”
“We’re fine.”
“Then why haven’t you answered your phone?”
He hesitated.
“We saw your messages. We were scared to answer. Grandpa didn’t know we’d turned our phones off.”
“You let us spend the entire night looking for you. Frank’s bringing you home. Now.”
I updated the police and called Denise.
At 4:37 a.m., Nathan walked through my front door.
“Where have you been? Do you have any idea what you’ve put us through?”
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
“Two months! Where have you been spending your weekends?”
He lowered his head. His eyes were swollen from crying, and sawdust clung to his hair.
Then I noticed his jacket.
Michael’s old brown work jacket, with the torn pocket. I hadn’t seen it in three years.
