Chapter 32 Scott Without a Trace
SCOTT: WITHOUT A TRACE
The suburbs held their breath.
Best two out of three. I’d taken the straight-line mow-off. He’d won the leaf-blower drag race. Now the hedge-shaping speed round would crown the champion. No medals. No cheering. The Turf Olympics dealt only in pride.
Two men.
Two machines.
One wildly unnecessary showdown.
Malcolm, the next-door neighbor, and I stared each other down across the property line, jaws set, protective goggles sliding into place like we’d rehearsed it.
His hedge trimmer revved first—loud and aggressive, clearly trying to intimidate me.
Cute. I thumbed my own ignition. Brrrrrrr.
The sound ripped through the cul-de-sac.
He leveled the blade at bush height and unleashed a confetti storm of leaves.
I fired back with my own touchdown pass of clippings, green shrapnel drifting between us in slow-motion glory.
Two ordinary dads chainsawing their way to suburban immortality.
By the end, that poor hedge had a whole new haircut, one it definitely hadn’t asked for.
Fifteen minutes later, the mowers had been powered down, the trimmers were silent, and both of us had dropped down into our low-to-the-ground beach chairs—one in my yard, one in Malcolm’s—angled just close enough to be conversational, just far enough to honor the invisible property line.
Malcolm lifted his chin toward my yard, tipping his water bottle to mine. “You tried your heart out today, McKallister.”
I took my loss in stride. “I would’ve had you if that branch hadn’t done me dirty.”
“Sure, buddy, blame the shrub.”
Once upon a time, our yards had lived in peace.
Back when we bought the house six years ago, Malcolm and I were just two landscape warriors banished to the front yard by our wives.
For a year, we handled our chores in a kind of adult parallel play—him edging, me mowing, talking only to trade casual compliments or borrow a tool.
Then came the fateful day we’d both ended up trimming the same shrub that straddled both our property lines. Hedgers in hand, inches from slicing off each other’s fingers, we looked up at the exact same time, our eyes locking like the dogs in Lady and the Tramp sharing that spaghetti strand.
And just like that, a bromance was born.
“Think anyone will notice the most excellent job we did today?” Malcolm asked, clearly referring to the wives.
“God, I hope not,” I said. “Sets expectations.”
We both chuckled and sank deeper into our chairs—chairs that were also sinking deeper into the grass. A long, peaceful stretch of silence settled between us. A breeze kicked up, a single leaf drifting by as if admiring the craftsmanship, and for a moment, the world was perfect.
“Man, this is the life,” I said, legs splayed.
“I can think of better lives than sitting here watching you slowly melting into the grass.”
“Shhh,” I said. “Let me have this.”
“Malcolm!” his wife called out, summoning him like we were back in the 80s and the streetlights had just switched on.
He winced.
I grinned. “Uh-oh. Someone just hit curfew.”
He started wrestling himself out of his chair, legs flailing like a flipped turtle. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, Hotmail.”
“Hey, I told you that in confidence.”
“Scott!” Michelle’s voice rang out from our house. “Are the boys out there with you?”
“No,” I called back, shoving myself upward only to have the chair suction-cup to the ground.
Malcolm offered me a hand. Once I was finally vertical, he patted my shoulder. “That’s the sound of your perfect evening taking a turn, my friend.”
I headed for the porch, still smiling until I saw Michelle standing there, arms folded tight, scanning the street. “Where are they? It’s 6:10.”
“They’re ten minutes late. No big deal,” I said, and truly I believed it. They were boys. Punctuality wasn’t what our breed was known for. “I’m sure they realized they were late and are skating home now.”
She rubbed her arms and frowned. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right.”
I followed her back inside. The kitchen table was set and dinner was waiting.
“Did you win?” Keith asked me.
“There are no winners or losers in lawn care, son.”
“So you lost?” He shook his head in disappointment. “How am I ever expected to become a man with you as a role-model?”
I smacked the hat off his head, and we wrestled.
“Stop!” Michelle snapped. “Scott. They’re fifteen minutes late. Even if they walked back from the skate park, they’d be home by now.”
“Okay,” I said, grabbing my keys. “I’ll go get ’em.”
I was more annoyed than worried when I backed out of the driveway.
They were probably doing one last run. No, I wasn’t worried.
I’d been that age once, and I couldn’t recall ever making it home on time.
But Michelle had strict dinnertime rules, and the boys knew if she said 6:00, she meant 6:00, not 6:01.
The skate park was buzzing with kids who didn’t have six o’clock curfews. They were flying off ramps, weaving scooters through skateboarders, and blasting music from a portable speaker. But none of them were Jake or Kyle. The boys weren’t here. Where the hell were they?
Getting out of the minivan, I scanned the area.
If the boys were anything like me at that age, they’d have already wedged themselves into some hidden corner with a doobie.
Not that they were anything like me—Michelle ran a much tighter operation—but still.
Teenage boys, plus free time, rarely equaled innocence.
I walked up to a group of middle-schoolers I recognized, and the little punks turned away like standing near me might tank their coolness score. Please. I was riding fifteen-foot waves before they even rolled out of bed this morning!
“You guys seen Jake or Kyle McKallister today?” I asked the tallest kid, who looked like he’d been born with a suspended license.
He shrugged. The others followed suit, a synchronized display of teenage unhelpfulness. One of the boys who refused to meet my eye was Kyle’s friend. He’d been in our house enough times to eat snacks on my couch without asking.
“Hey, Seth?” I said, zeroing in on him. “I’m talking to you. I’m looking for my boys. Have you seen them?”
“No,” Seth said, his eyes passing over mine on their way downward. “They didn’t come today. Haven’t seen them here since Thursday.”
That’s when something cold skimmed my stomach. Just a flick. A warning.
“You know where they might go skate if it’s not here?”
Suddenly they all found their voices. Amazing what desperation to get rid of an adult can do. A chorus of spots spilled out: the parking lot at the mall, the ditch by the high school, some stair set behind the grocery store.
“All right,” I said, forcing a casual tone even as that twinge in my gut cinched tighter. “Thanks, guys.”
Before leaving, I checked the edges of the park, the grassy areas, the bathrooms. Nothing. That twinge sharpened. I picked up my pace and called out their names, but I was met with nothing but silence.
Concern settled in. Not panic; not yet. But something inside me had already started taking inventory of everything that could go wrong, and I hated that I couldn’t find a single thing to reassure myself.
Back at the van, I called Michelle. She picked up on the first ring.
“Are they home?” I asked.
“No. Scott, they’re not here.” Her voice was already fraying. “They weren’t at the skate park?”
“No. But I got a list of places they might have gone from their friends. I’ll swing by now.”
Silence. Heavy. I pictured Michelle’s face, her rising panic, and I wanted more than anything to ease it.
Then she whispered, “What if—”
“They’re fine,” I cut in quickly, even though that same fear clawed at me. The words she couldn’t say. The words I hadn’t allowed her to speak. What if they got hurt? Or worse—what if someone took them? “I’m going to hang up now so I can look.”
“Okay. And Scott?”
“What?”
“Find them.”
“I will.”
After hanging up, I canvassed the area. Every usual haunt. The convenience store. The bike path. The alley shortcuts. The schoolyard. The side streets the boys always cut through. No Jake and Kyle.
Michelle’s voice kept replaying in my head. Find them.
I meant it when I promised I would, but the truth was… I had no explanation for their absence. The boys were never late for dinner. They’d never put Michelle through this unless there was a good reason… or a bad one.
By the time I passed the beach walkway and the sun had dipped low, my nerves buzzed, static creeping up my spine. I pulled up to Dalton’s and parked. He’d been Michelle’s first call at six sharp, but he’d been grounded and hadn’t been allowed to go out with the boys.
I knocked. Dalton’s mother answered.
“Hey, Bonnie. Are the boys here?”
“No, Michelle already called—”
“I know, but I thought maybe…” I cleared my throat. “Can I talk to Dalton? Maybe he knows something.”
The look on my face must have said everything, because she called out immediately. “Dalton. Come here.”
Then, to me, she said, “They stopped by on their way to the skate park, but I wouldn’t let Dalton go because he’s grounded.”
Dalton appeared, saw me, and his brows furrowed. “They’re still not home?”
“No,” I said. “They never made it to the skate park. Do you know anywhere else they might’ve gone?”
His expression turned. “Wait… what are you saying? Are they missing?”
“I’m sure they’re just fine,” Bonnie cut in gently. “They lost track of time, that’s all.”
But the look in Dalton’s eye didn’t match his mother’s tone.
“Dalton, do you know something?” I pressed. “Maybe they went somewhere they weren’t supposed to. I promise you won’t be in trouble if you tell me.”
He shook his head. “I swear, Mr. M. That’s where they said they were going.”
A slow, heavy dread settled in my chest.
“All right,” I said. “Thanks, bud.”
He was closing the door when he paused. “Mr. M.?”
“Yeah?”
“They would never miss curfew.”
The door shut, and I stood there a second too long, staring at the wood grain like it held an answer. Dalton was right. I could pretend this was normal boy stuff, but it wasn’t. Not for my kids. Something was wrong. Not kid-being-late wrong. Wrong-wrong.
I walked to the minivan, each step heavier than the last. How could I face Michelle and tell her maybe—maybe—her worst nightmare was coming true?
She was outside when I pulled up. Probably spotted the van at Dalton’s. She stepped off the porch the moment she saw the empty backseat.
“Where are they?” she asked, fear fermenting into blame. “You said you’d find them.”
I shook my head once. “I looked everywhere.”
“Did you check the entire skate park?”
“Yes.”
“The beach? The convenience store? The school?”
“Michelle—”
“The corner park? Please tell me you went to the corner park.”
I took her by the arms, steadying her even as my own calm slipped. “Michelle, I looked everywhere.”
“So what do we do?” she paused, blinking fast, panic rising. “Scott… what do we do?”
“I think you need to start calling.”
“Calling who?”
I tightened my grip on her arms.
“Everyone.”