Our Darkest Summer

Prologue

July 7, 2009

Coldwater, Maine

A ten-year-old boy stood in the middle of the large wooden room, analyzing his surroundings. From the few policemen searching through the house, to his dad, who was talking to the chief, and then to his little brother. His stare snapped up to the fresh flowers on the kitchen counter, right behind his brother’s back. The deep purple of them allured his attention. He felt the light summer breeze that was coming through the open window against his sun-kissed skin, and the fresh scent of the pine woods calmed him. From time to time, a policeman or some other complete stranger approached him and asked if he was all right. And to those, he nodded.

But of course he wasn’t all right. He was sure he would never ever be again. But he was strong, and so he pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded, nodded, nodded—burying the need to cry deep within himself.

He may have been ten years old, but there was no way he would cry in front of anyone. Not today. Not ever. So, he refocused his eyes again, now toward the stairs that led down from the second floor. He could almost see himself coming down the same ones just a few hours ago. He envied that past self of him, the unknowing one, unaware of what the near future held. He clenched his small hands into a fist and let out a frustrated breath. He wanted answers, facts…those were the things he appreciated in life. But of course, nobody said anything to a child, even if the questions were about his own mother. His missing mother. His attention snapped back to where his father was standing in the living room with his little brother, who was clinging to his pants.

He didn’t have the chance to talk with his father yet, but the police did ask him strange questions about his mother earlier. When was the last time he saw her? How did she act? Was she strange? Would he like to draw his last memory of her down? That could help.

That could help? He didn’t believe that, so he ignored most of these questions. He knew his mother hadn’t run away like the police wanted to make it seem, so what was the point of acting like she did? He knew his mother loved him and his brother—and even his father, for some odd reason Thomas couldn’t comprehend. So instead of playing into the stupid games of the police, he made a pact with himself. One day, when he wasn’t a child anymore and he could get real answers, he would come back to this town, to this house, and unfold the past.

He sighed and looked around at the chaos of policemen in the house.

“Are you all right, Thomas?” one of them asked, approaching him.

Him, he recognized as his friend’s father, Officer Isaac Miller. Thomas glared at his brother behind the officer’s back, still clinging to their father’s trousers, scared and confused, and Thomas nodded. From now on, he always had to be all right, he thought. His eyes refocused on the flowers behind his brother’s back, and a knot formed in his chest. Buying those things and placing them nicely into that old vase with care could have been one of the last things his mother did before she disappeared into the night.