Chapter 37
Chapter thirty-seven
Lindsay
My phone rings, and I know something is wrong before I answer. Steve wouldn't call to make conversation.
"Lindsay," he says, and he doesn't waste a single word after that. "We can't find Henry."
The room tilts. I have to sit down before my knees give out.
It's Thursday—A school day. Things should be following the schedule.
I ask where Arthur is.
Europe. A different time zone. A different continent. The worst possible distance.
"Henry was at school," Steve continues. "But he didn't show up for pickup. We suspect he ran away after the school day was complete."
My brain snaps into motion. Lists. Patterns. Henry's habits. His quiet rebellions. His safe places.
"He wouldn't run randomly," I say, already grabbing my keys.
My sister appears in the doorway, concern etching her features as she watches me scramble for my shoes.
"What's happening?"
"Henry's missing," I say, not slowing down. "I have to go."
She doesn't try to stop me. Doesn't remind me that I walked away, that I broke things, that this might not be my place anymore. She just nods and steps aside.
"Call if you need anything."
I keep Steve on the phone as I drive, listing places Henry might be. The library. The comic shop near the school. The park. Steve confirms they're being checked.
Then my hands tighten on the steering wheel. I remember driving with Henry, listing my favorite places. He wouldn't go there—but still, in some quiet, stubborn way I can't get it out of my mind.
"My old apartment," I say finally. "Did anyone check there?"
There's a pause. Then Steve exhales. "No."
"I'm going," I tell him. "Call me if anything changes."
I don't wait for permission. I don't ask if this is appropriate or if I'm crossing a line. If Henry is scared and lost—then fights and preferences don't matter.
Traffic crawls. I take side streets, cut through parking lots, run a yellow light that's definitely more red than amber.
My heart pounds against my ribs, keeping time with worst-case scenarios.
What if he's not there? What if something happened? What if I'm wrong?
The doubt creeps in, quiet but insistent. I'm not his mother. Not his family. Just a woman who appeared in his life and then vanished.
But I keep driving.
Henry is sitting on the steps when I pull up. Backpack at his feet. Knees pulled to his chest. He looks smaller than I've ever seen him.
I'm out of the car before the engine cuts.
"Henry," I say, and my voice breaks even though I didn't give it permission to.
He looks up. Relief flashes across his face before guilt slams down hard enough to straighten his spine. He stands, unsure, his face red and blotchy.
"I didn't mean to scare anyone," he says immediately. "I just—"
I pull him into a hug. No words. No correction. Just arms and warmth.
His face presses into my shoulder. "I thought if I stayed with you," he says, muffled, "you wouldn't have left."
I don't realize I'm crying until I feel the wetness on my cheeks. Not heaving sobs—just quiet tears.
"I need to call Steve," I say gently. "Let them know you're safe. Is that okay?"
Henry nods against my shoulder, still not pulling away.
I keep one arm around him as I make the call. Steve's relief is palpable through the phone. I tell him where we are, that Henry's unharmed, that we'll be back soon.
I don't promise when "soon" will be.
We sit inside, on the old couch. Nothing has changed here. Same scratch in the wall. Same uneven table leg. The life I had before everything detonated still exists in this room.
Henry twists his fingers together. "If I hadn't wandered off at CAMICon," he says, staring at the floor, "Dad wouldn't have yelled. You wouldn't have gone. It's my fault."
The words hit like a physical blow. I turn toward him fully, grounding my voice even as my chest aches.
"No," I say. "Absolutely not. That was never your fault."
He looks unconvinced.
"This was between adults," I continue carefully. "Big, messy feelings that had nothing to do with you. You didn't break anything."
I mean it. But I don't say the part where I broke, too.
I don't say how much I want to walk back into his life like nothing ever happened.
"Dad's been different," Henry says after a moment. "Since you left."
I brace myself for the follow-up. Angry. Cold. Distant. All the ways Arthur could have hardened in my absence.
"Sad," Henry says instead. "Like, really sad."
The word doesn't fit the Arthur I know—controlled, deliberate, steady. Sadness requires admission. The kind of openness Arthur views as tactical weakness.
"He probably doesn't show it," I say gently.
Henry's laugh catches me off guard—short, almost adult in its weariness.
"He doesn't have to. I can tell."
I wonder what that looks like. Arthur maintaining all his usual structures while something inside him cracks. Working. Parenting. Functioning.
The thought hurts more than I expect it to.
"When's he coming back?" I ask. "From Europe."
Henry shrugs. "Few days, I think. Steven didn't say exactly."
I nod, processing. A few days. Time enough to decide what happens next. Time enough to be brave or to run again.
"Are you hungry?" I ask, changing the subject. "I have..." I glance toward the kitchen, realizing I haven't stocked anything since leaving. "Well, probably nothing. But we could order something."
Henry shakes his head. "I'm not hungry."
We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of everything unsaid pressing against the walls of this too-small apartment.
Henry looks at me then. Quiet. Searching. "You're coming back, right?" he asks. "Even just to say goodbye properly?"
My throat tightens. "I don't know," I admit. "But I'm here right now. That counts for something."
As we leave the apartment together, Henry's hand brushes mine. Squeezes it for a second before he drops it.
And as I lock the door— I finally understand the truth I've been circling for weeks.
I didn't walk away because I stopped loving them. I walked away because I didn't believe I could stay.
The drive back to Arthur's house is different than the frantic journey to find Henry. Slower. Quieter. Each mile bringing me closer to a decision I'm not sure I'm ready to make.
Henry dozes in the passenger seat, exhaustion finally claiming him now that the adrenaline has faded. I glance at him occasionally, at the way his face relaxes in sleep, the way he seems younger without the weight of all that awareness.
I think about him in the hallway at Dupree Technologies, explaining something to the receptionist with such enthusiasm. How his entire face lit up when I stopped to listen.
I remember how easily Henry slipped into conversation with me. How naturally he shared his thoughts, his interests, his world. Not cautious like he is with Arthur. Not reserved.
Just... himself.
I don't know when I became safe for him. I don't know why. But somehow, between all the small moments—game sessions and dinner conversations and quiet car rides—this child decided I was someone he could trust.
And then I left.
***
When we arrive, I prod Henry awake.
Walking him back to the mansion feels different than the last time I was here. Like I'm stepping into a place I don't belong anymore—but still know.
Henry drags his feet at the entry. He hugs me quickly, fiercely, like he's afraid if he lingers too long I'll disappear again.
I smooth his hair and tell him that none of this is his fault.
He nods, but I can tell he doesn't believe me.
I straighten as the door opens. Steve is standing there.
He looks tired. His tie is loose, his jacket abandoned. That alone tells me more than words would.
"You said Arthur is gone?"
Steve nods, "Business trip."
I nod, bracing myself for the follow-up that never comes.
Instead, Steve hesitates. "That fight with you was the worst mistake he's made in a long time."
I don't breathe.
Steve doesn't elaborate. He doesn't comfort or promise or soften it. He just opens the door wider so Henry can step fully inside.
He adds, "Do with it what you want."
I leave before I can say something stupid. Or hopeful. Or desperate.
The drive away from the house feels lighter than the drive toward it did, even though nothing is resolved.
Even though Arthur hasn't called.
Even though I still don't know where I stand.
Hope creeps in anyway.
It whispers that maybe this isn't over. That maybe walking away wasn't the end.
I tell myself not to read into it.
I fail immediately.
***
My sister looks up when I walk in, eyes sharp, taking inventory of my face.
"You found him," she says.
I nod, collapsing onto the cushions. "At my old apartment. He was just sitting there, waiting."
She settles next to me, pulling her legs up underneath her. "Poor kid."
"Yeah," I whisper. "He thought it was his fault. The fight. Me leaving."
My sister doesn't answer immediately. She studies me with the kind of focus that makes me want to squirm. "Was it?"
"Of course not." The words come out clipped.
"Then what happened?"
"I took Henry to CAMICon without telling him." I keep my eyes on the coffee table, tracing a scratch in the wood with my finger.
"Oh no."
I wince.
"Without security." My stomach tightens as soon as I say it.
"Is that a big issue?"
"And then I lost him."
The room feels suddenly very quiet, like the words sucked all the air out of it.
My sister is dumbfounded. "Oh. No wonder he was upset."
"I found him again."
"That doesn't make it better."
"I know. But that is not the only reason we fought."
"Then why?" she asks.
I lean back against the cushions.
I stare at the ceiling, the weight of everything pressing against my chest.
"Because I was afraid," I continue. "That he never really wanted me. That he only married me because I checked the right boxes."
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes. "Because I was easy to control."
"Do you believe that?" she asks quietly.
The question hangs there, demanding an honesty I'm not sure I'm ready to give. Because the answer doesn't simplify anything. It just makes the leaving harder to justify.
"No," I admit. "I don't."
She nods, satisfied with something I can't see.
"Steve said the fight was Arthur's worst mistake in a long time," I add, not looking at her.
My sister makes a small sound—not quite dismissal, not quite agreement.
"What does that even mean?" I say, frustration building. "What am I supposed to do with that?"
My sister shrugs. "Whatever you want."
I laugh, the sound sharp and humorless. "That's exactly what Steve said."
"Smart man."
I stand, suddenly restless. "This is ridiculous. I'm a grown woman with billions of dollars and I'm sitting here dissecting vague statements like they're fortune cookies."
"So stop," my sister replies simply.
I turn to face her. "Stop what?"
"You're waiting for someone to give you permission to feel whatever you're feeling. To make the decision for you." Her voice softens. "Lindsay, you've spent your whole life being careful. Being the responsible one. And where did it get you?"
I swallow hard. "The lottery," I say weakly.
She rolls her eyes. "Luck isn't a character trait. And it isn't a plan."
She stands, facing me.
"You want my opinion? Stop waiting for Arthur to tell you what happens next."
She meets my gaze.
“Decide what you want. Then go get it.”