Chapter 6
Six
Dr. Zapata spends the afternoon talking with me and Nate’s parents—Easton is sent down to the cafeteria despite his objections.
Detective Hall interjects with a few of her own questions when the conversation allows. She asks me about my kidnapping and
where I’ve been, but I don’t offer any real answers. I keep everything vague and dodge as many questions as I can without
looking suspicious.
If anyone is suspicious, they have great poker faces. Even Marcus seems to be believing it all a little easier now. Agent Grant, on the
other hand, remains stoic and unreadable.
Still, it doesn’t hurt my case that Dr. Zapata says post-traumatic amnesia is common in kidnappings. At one point before asking
some darker questions, she asks if Nate’s parents would like to leave the room. Marcus looks as though he wants to, but Valencia
says no and reaches for my hand.
Of course Dr. Zapata asks about sexual abuse, because why wouldn’t you ask that of a kidnapping victim, but I make sure she
knows there wasn’t any. I’m okay with lying about who I am to get out of jail, but sexual abuse victims are rarely believed
to begin with, and there’s no way I’m contributing to that by lying about it myself.
Weird how my morals are so clear-cut on some things, but not others. Manipulating grieving families? Okay! Lying about sexual assault? Definitely not okay!
“I’m sorry, but how much longer do we need to talk about this?” I finally ask. It’s all starting to hit me—exactly what I’m
doing here—and I hate it. I hate how kind these two parents are; lying to them makes me feel awful. Maybe there was another
way I could have avoided going to juvie, but I still can’t figure it out. Not that it matters, because I’m already in too
deep.
Dr. Zapata nods. “You’re right, we should probably pause for the day.”
Pause? How much more could there be? “No. I’d rather try and get it all done now so we can move on.”
Dr. Zapata’s eyes flick over to Nate’s parents, then back to me. “Nate, your road to recovery is going to be a long one. You’ve
been through immense trauma—not least of which is that you’ve lived on the streets for the past eight months.”
I did tell them that part. But it was under the guise of me running away. I couldn’t remember who or where I was running from,
but I ran. It’s close enough to the real story that it was easy to sell.
Valencia turns to me. “Dr. Zapata has her own practice when she’s not doing consults for the hospital. We’ve asked that she
be your psychologist.”
“I’d like you to come see me at least once a week,” she says. She must see that I’m about to argue, so she puts up her hands.
“To start. We can add more days if you need. Or if you’re adjusting to your home life okay, we can pare back.”
At least the Beaumonts will have her to speak to when I disappear again. Maybe she can tell them it’s part of my trauma and I’ll be back one day.
“Okay,” I say. I have zero intention of staying long enough to have even one session with Dr. Z.
Dr. Zapata thanks me, then tells my parents she’ll call them tomorrow to set up my first appointment. She also mentions that
it might be best if they go home for the night. “I understand you probably don’t want to let him out of your sight again,
but he should rest.”
There’s a fair amount of subtext in her words—maybe she discussed this when they first met, because Valencia doesn’t argue
with her.
“There’s going to be an officer posted outside his room all night,” Detective Hall says. “He’ll be safe here.”
“I don’t need a police escort,” I say, trying not to sound too anxious about the idea.
Agent Grant speaks from the corner; it’s the first time he’s said anything. “Until we know more about your kidnapping, we’ll
be keeping a close eye on you. Abductions like this are usually a single person. But with your amnesia”—he says it like he
doesn’t buy the excuse—“we don’t know if it’s one person or a bigger trafficking ring that might be looking for you. It’s
for your protection.”
“You’ll be okay, sweetie,” Valencia says. Then she leans over me. I flinch slightly and she backs away, looking either sad
or embarrassed. My cheeks burn. I didn’t realize she was trying to kiss my forehead. No one’s ever tried to do that before.
“Okay,” I say, trying to move past the awkwardness. I’m not escaping from the hospital tonight. But I’m curious to know whether it’s for my own protection or to make sure I’m not going to run off before they find out who I really am.
Nate’s parents say goodbye to Dr. Zapata, and Detective Hall and Agent Grant go outside to talk with her some more. Valencia
reaches into the bag she set on the ground and takes out a phone. She hands it over to me. “We activated a new line on one
of Easton’s old phones for you on the way here. Our numbers are all saved in there. If you need us, you can call or text at
any time, okay?” She looks embarrassed for a second, then laughs. “And . . . I might text you good night. Or when we get home.
Or from the car.”
I can’t help but laugh and it manages to dial down the remaining awkwardness to zero. I take the phone from her and the screen
lights up. The wallpaper is a family photo of Marcus, Valencia, and Easton. They’re standing on a dock, dressed in summer
clothing, with the ocean behind them, all smiling as if they didn’t survive a trauma together. My heart flutters, but I’m
not sure if it’s guilt again or the idea of being a part of a happy family.
“Thank you,” I say.
“We’ll be back tomorrow,” Marcus says.
“We’ll stop somewhere on the way home to pick up some new clothes for you,” Valencia adds. She goes over to my plastic bag
of clothes, which the nurse finally dropped off. “What size are you now?”
“Those pants are a little big,” I say.
Valencia looks at the tag, then at me, and for a second looks like she’s going to cry again, but she nods quickly.
She comes back and kisses me on the cheek before pulling me into another warm embrace. I still have to fight not to flinch. When she’s done, Marcus even comes over to the bed and gives me a hug, albeit a slightly more reserved one.
Then they go out into the hallway, where they talk with Detective Hall and Agent Grant.
I get up, grab my IV bag off the hook by my bed, and walk over to the door.
Agent Grant is speaking. “—advise you to order a DNA test to confirm that he is really Nate.”
“You took his blood,” Valencia says. “You matched his blood type to us.”
What?
“Mrs. Beaumont,” Detective Hall says, “blood type doesn’t—”
“You said that boy in there is B-positive. Nate was B-positive because I’m O and Marcus is B-positive. Go in there and ask
him whatever questions you might have. Or look at him, for chrissake! He is our son. I don’t need you taking his DNA and ours to file in some database.”
“Val.” Marcus’s voice sounds calm and steady. “If it will put all this to rest—”
“No,” she says. “It is put to rest. That’s our son and we’re taking him home tomorrow. What are you going to do if we don’t submit to a DNA test?
Claim he isn’t ours? Put him in foster care? You have two parents here who have missed out on almost ten years with their child!”
Marcus says her name again in a hushed tone, but she keeps going. “Ten years he’s been missing, and you all couldn’t find
him. And now one of your officers arrested him because he was starving and had nowhere to turn. If you do try to take him away, we will sue you once that court-ordered DNA test comes back a match.”
I feel like this is all a huge bluff, but Valencia is certainly selling it. Agent Grant says “Very well” and wishes them both
a good evening before his dress shoes echo away down the hall.
Detective Hall sighs and says, “This is Officer Rhodes. He’ll be here until six p.m., then Officer Daniels will take over
until six a.m. You have my card if you need anything in the meantime. And I’ll see you both in the morning.”
“Thank you, Detective,” Marcus says. She doesn’t respond, but her footsteps head the same way Agent Grant went.
Officer Rhodes says good night to Marcus and Valencia, and their footsteps are the last to go, the two of them whispering
to each other in a low argument I can’t make out.
I go back and lie down in the hospital bed, raising the back a bit more so I’m sitting upright. Based on what I overheard,
the police didn’t test my blood to make sure I was Nate. And considering what was said between the police and Nate’s parents,
it sounds like it’s up to Marcus and Valencia.
At least for now.
Valencia said they were going to buy me new clothes. If I do go home with them, I could pack better than when I ran away from
my parents. I could get a bigger duffel bag and fill it with my new clothes. And food—I can take canned food that they won’t
miss. Marcus made that joke about feeding two teens. They probably wouldn’t notice if food was disappearing quickly.
The idea brings my guilt right back again. Valencia was so happy to see me, to see her son. The one she probably thought was dead and gone years ago.
The phone they gave me vibrates on the bed next to me and I see the text notification from “Mom” on the front screen.
I unlock it—no passcode yet—and open the messages.
We’re so excited to bring you home tomorrow! Sleep well, pumpkin! We love you! ?
My chest feels a little tight reading her message.
My mom—my real mom—never texted me things like that. Neither of my parents even said “I love you” or “Sleep well” before going to bed. Only
“Night” or “Don’t forget to brush your teeth.”
Good night, I send back. Then I type out love you, too. But I don’t hit send. Would it be a lie for Nate to say that so soon? Would he trust these people this quickly?
Or is it meaner to say it and then run off again?
I delete the words. But she still sends a message back:
?
That little emoji heart is enough to bring me back to reality. I have to make sure I get away with this. At least long enough
to run.
My curiosity gets the better of me, so I search Nathaniel Beaumont’s name. My stomach drops because not only are there news
articles dating back to his disappearance almost ten years ago, but also newer podcasts and YouTube videos about it every
few years—the most recent one was posted ten months ago.
One of the earlier news articles has footage of where he was allegedly last seen: on a blurry gas station security video, sitting in the back of a blue Honda Civic driven by a woman with brown hair wearing sunglasses.
But several of the later videos talking about this footage say it’s not Nate.
The gas station attendant had seen a kid who matched Nate’s description from the Amber Alert and called the police.
They never caught up to the blue Honda, and the attendant didn’t catch her license plate.
I go back and start at the beginning with one of the earliest articles that isn’t hidden behind a paywall.
On the afternoon of July 7, Nate was in his yard playing with his older brother, Easton. Around one in the afternoon, Easton
left to go over to his friend John’s house, where he stayed until four p.m. Upon returning home, he learned from Valencia
that Nate hadn’t been in the yard when she woke from a nap. Marcus had been out grocery shopping and returned around two p.m.,
but Nate wasn’t there then either.
It wasn’t odd for both boys to go to a friend’s house or the nearby park together, so their parents weren’t alarmed to see
neither boy in the yard. Easton said John asked him to come over and Nate didn’t want to go so he stayed behind.
The Beaumonts’ house sat on the eastern shore of the Chesapeake Bay. Search and rescue scouted the area for signs of him but
found nothing.
That’s when the gas station tip came in. It was several hours later, from a rest stop in Pennsylvania. Since the police were
treating the case as an abduction and it was now possible Nate had crossed state lines, the FBI got involved.
Agent Grant.
I put my phone down as a nurse comes in with food and more of that sugary drink they keep forcing on me. It’s supposed to help starving people, but honestly it’s so disgusting I kind of lose my appetite.
But the nurse sits there and watches me drink the whole thing before taking the cup and leaving again. I look at the hospital
food—a dry, cheeseless burger, a fruit cup, juice, and the saddest-looking iceberg lettuce salad I’ve ever seen.
I’d prefer the Beefaroni.
My stomach does a little grumble, letting me know I’m going to eat it all eventually, but yeah, maybe we should pace ourselves
after that disgusting drink. So I go back to reading about Nate. But all the articles are the same after that. No new leads.
No sightings, no suspects—at least none that the police were willing to disclose to the press.
How does a kid go missing without a trace?