Chapter Ten
To my embarrassment, I got nervous at the last minute, and it showed: I couldn’t stop fidgeting, my hands trembled, and I kept dropping things. Then again, I started to make that something of a habit.
"What if they secretly think I had something to do with their son’s disappearance?" I asked Mitch when we were together in the car.
Mitchell looked at me, puzzled. "Why would they blame you?"
"Isn’t that what people usually do? Look to place blame?"
"It’s going to be okay, Foster. Deep breaths."
I saved their address after Lucas asked me to mail something to them one time—a birthday card, or anniversary note I’d encouraged him to gift, trying to get on their good side before we officially met.
Now, as I nearly fell out of the car, my only hope was that they hadn’t moved.
The old Farmhouse-style home had been lovingly restored, its classic lines refreshed by a recent makeover.
Lucas mentioned that his parents had lived there since they got married.
His father renovated the house himself, pouring his heart and soul into it.
The scent of fresh-cut grass wafted through the air, the lawn perfectly manicured.
On the porch, with its newly painted railings, an old-fashioned radio softly sang Willie Nelson tunes.
We seemed to have slipped through the decades, landing squarely in the past.
Lucas’s father was sitting on the wooden stairs, carving a bird-shaped figurine from a piece of basswood, the shavings curling softly at his feet.
He looked the same, albeit more faded than when I last saw him at the Minneapolis police station.
His face had grown even thinner, accentuating the defined angles of his bone structure, with more lines and wrinkles etched into his skin.
Mr. Whitman’s movements were precise and straightforward, the knife in his hand fluttering around the wood like a butterfly over a flower.
When he noticed us, he set the tools down and stood up.
His height, the same as Lucas’s, made him appear younger.
When he had been sitting on the porch, I’d mistaken him for a scrawny man in his sixties.
But now, standing, he appeared tall, with good posture and a strong frame.
"What can I do for ya?" he said in a low, rumbling baritone.
"Mister Whitman, I’m not sure if you remember me. We met in Minneapolis," I began, hoping to jog his memory. "I’m Lucas’s girlfriend."
"Oh yes, Natalie, was it?" the old man said, adjusting his eyeglasses.
"Nellie," I corrected, unoffended. "And this is my friend, Mitchell."
"My apologies," he smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "What brings you here?"
Mitchell interjected, "We’re here about your son’s disappearance."
Lucas’s dad grew serious, his expression clouding over. "Do you have any news? The police never contacted us."
"We’re not sure, sir. Maybe it’s best if we sit down to talk."
"You’re not from around here," he narrowed his eyes at Mitchell, turning the volume of the radio down.
"No, sir. I’m from Missouri."
"Missouri, huh… Quite a distance," he nodded to himself. "You Lucas’s friend?"
"No, sir. I am here ‘bout my sister. She disappeared. Just like your son, sir."
Mr. Whitman squinted as if trying to see where this conversation was going.
"I’m sorry to hear that. Did she know Lucas?"
"Not sure, sir. But before she disappeared, she took a trip here, to Black Water. Maybe you’ve seen her? Do you mind looking at her picture?"
I was slightly annoyed at Mitchell for talking over me and dragging the conversation to his sister.
The old man removed his thick-framed glasses, rubbed his tired eyes with a worn thumb and index finger, and then fished out a crumpled napkin from his pocket. He meticulously wiped the lenses before putting them back on.
"Reckon you’re right. Maybe we should step inside. Where’s my manners at?"
He held the door as we walked in, then called out from behind us, his voice booming through the house and making me wince. "Emily, we’ve got company!"
We stepped into a light-filled foyer, its creamy yellow walls glowing in the setting sun.
The dark wood floors creaked under our feet.
To the left, a staircase with elegantly turned balusters and a curved handrail led upstairs.
The wall beside it was lined with family photos, a quiet and poignant reminder of happier times.
Somewhere up there was Lucas’s room. Unless his parents had repurposed it to avoid the weight of painful memories.
But I had a feeling they’d left it untouched.
I reached out to the old wooden coat rack, my fingers tracing its worn surface. The air smelled faintly of lemon polish, layered over something older—dust in the vents, dry paper, a hint of medicinal cream.
This was the house where Lucas grew up. Strange to think of him racing up and down these stairs.
Mr. Whitman led us to the living room, adorned with rustic touches, including a few sets of antlers—probably souvenirs from his hunting adventures—mounted on the walls.
I tried to envision Lucas living here, watching TV and playing video games.
His school trophies from football games were on display, alongside framed photos on the walls and mantelpiece.
We settled into the worn, plush couch while Mr. Whitman took the chair across from us.
"How about you start from the beginning so my old head can follow?" he said.
"My sister went missing last year, under similar circumstances to your son. She’d been out here visiting before she disappeared. You might’ve seen her? Mind taking a look?" He pulled out his phone as I restrained my growing frustration.
Mitchell was driving the conversation further away from what we had planned: concentrating on asking Mr. Whitman about Lucas’s recent visit home.
Mr. Whitman adjusted his glasses, took the phone, and scrutinized the image.
"Don’t rightly look familiar, but my eyes ain’t what they used to be," he said. "Emily, take a look at this," he called out to his wife.
Lucas’s mother, a quiet woman with a measured expression, entered the living room with drinks.
She reservedly greeted us, her face betraying not even a hint of recognition, then carefully examined the photo, scanning it with her faded gray eyes.
Lucas took after his dad in height and build, but his hair and eye color were unmistakably his mother’s.
Now, her hair was gray, but she still dyed it the same light shade I’d seen in photos of her younger self.
She avoided our eyes, her movements tense and hesitant. It was clear that our presence made her uncomfortable.
"Who is this?" she asked, taking a seat after arranging the drinks on the coffee table.
"It’s my sister, Amanda. She’s missing, like Lucas," Mitch said.
"She’s a mite too old for Lucas, don’t you reckon?" She kept studying the picture.
"They weren’t dating, honey," her husband advised, nodding toward me. "He was dating Natalie."
I hesitated to correct him again.
She regarded me as if seeing me for the first time. "I see." Then she returned the phone. "Never seen her. What’s that gotsta do with Lucas?"
"We’re trying to figure that out, ma’am."
"Alright then."
Her face suddenly contorted in a grimace that she hid behind her hands.
"Excuse me," she said and hurried out of the room.
Mitchell’s face fell. "We’re terribly sorry," he offered, sounding genuinely apologetic. "We didn’t mean to upset you."
"Excuse me for a spell, would ya?" Mr. Whitman trailed after his wife.
A large grandfather clock ticked loudly, its steady rhythm filling the silence. Mitchell took a sip of his iced tea. I stood up, too anxious to stay seated, and began pacing the room. I was mad at him. We had upset Lucas’s parents and found nothing useful.
I studied the photographs of my boyfriend in mismatched frames, following the visual story of his life—childhood photos on the left, gradually giving way to more recent ones towards the right.
In one photo, likely taken before prom, he stood with a girl.
A sharp pang of jealousy struck me, and my thoughts wandered to rumors of him cheating—maybe with his high school ex.
I quickly pushed the idea away.
In a couple of photographs, he was pictured with a friend at different ages.
The most recent snapshot showed them on a backpacking trip.
They were deep in the woods, grinning at the camera with their gear slung over their shoulders.
The friend’s darker hair and sharper features made him appear slightly older than Lucas.
I picked up the frame and flipped it over.
On the back of the photo, a message was written in neat cursive: Lucas and Duane, senior year.
Mitchell stepped up beside me, sensing that something had caught my attention. I pointed to the picture without a word.
"We should talk to this Duane guy," he said, taking the photo from my hands and examining it briefly before returning it to the shelf. I adjusted it slightly, restoring it to its original position before noting the football trophies from his school days.
"Lucas was as talented a receiver as I ever did see, God rest his soul."
I hadn’t noticed Mr. Whitman return, and his sudden presence made me jump. Then the gravity of his last words hit me, and I fought a wave of nausea. Lucas’s own father deemed him dead.
"He got himself a football scholarship, did ya know? My boy, he was somethin’ else." He approached the shelf, picked up one of the awards, and studied it with a sense of pride.
"He earned this one after that game against Oakdale High." He grew quiet, lost in a rush of memories. "I was so proud, I could’ve burst when they presented it to him in front of the whole school." He gently placed the plaque back on the shelf, his hands trembling slightly.
"I miss him, too," was all I could say.