When I returned to the small town I once called home, I was just a desperate father looking for my missing son. Every clue led me to a dead end until a Facebook notification appeared on my phone, and four chilling words made my heart stop: “Come quickly, he’s here.”
The bell above the door chimed as I stepped into the corner store. A man behind the counter glanced up from his phone as I approached.
“Can I help you?” he asked, his voice flat.
I held out the creased printout of Ethan’s school picture.
“Have you seen this boy? He’s 16, and his name’s Ethan. He might’ve come through here last night.”
The man took the picture and studied it.
“I recognize the kid, but I haven’t seen him in weeks.” He leaned closer, squinting at me like I was a bad check.
“I definitely haven’t seen him with you before. Where are you from, and why are you looking for him?”
The suspicion stung.
“I’m his father,” I said, and the title felt heavy, worn thin by years of distance.
When I’d realized Ethan was gone early that morning — bed empty, window open, wallet and phone left behind — I’d torn through our neighborhood back in the city, calling his name until my voice cracked.
Had he run away? Why would he leave his wallet and phone behind if he’d left home willingly?
In the months before my ex-wife, Kelly, died, she’d called several times to tell me that Ethan had been getting into trouble, that he’d fallen in with a dangerous crowd.
What if that trouble had followed him to my home in the city?
I’d called the police, but they didn’t seem to take me seriously when I suggested something had happened to him.
So, I’d driven all the way back here, to the town I left after divorcing Kelly, hoping I’d find something here that would lead me to my son.
“Wait — I know that kid.”
I turned. A middle-aged woman in a work apron stood behind me.
“He used to come in with his mom, Kelly, right?
Sweet lady.” The woman studied me with a thoughtful look. “Try posting his picture on the town Facebook page. People around here look out for each other.
If anyone’s seen him, they’ll let you know.”
The woman’s suggestion had merit. If somebody in town was connected to Ethan’s disappearance, the Facebook page might lead me to a clue.
Outside, I leaned against my car, pulled out my phone, and found the town group. I began typing: “My name is David.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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