Chapter 33 Michelle Taken
MICHELLE: TAKEN
“My—” The word stuck, fighting me. Saying it would make it real. “My sons. My sons are missing.”
There was a tiny pause on the other end, then her tone sharpened, all calm urgency.
“Okay, ma’am. I’m going to help you. What is your address?”
I rattled off the address, the words tumbling out too fast.
“All right, I have that. And you said sons, plural? How many children are missing?”
“Two. Both of them.”
“Okay, what are their ages?”
“Twelve and thirteen. Please—please, just hurry—”
“Units are being dispatched right now, ma’am. I understand you’re scared. I need a few more details so the officers can help as soon as they arrive.”
“Yes,” I said, forcing an exhale.
“What are your sons’ names?”
“Jake and Kyle McKallister. They should’ve been home over an hour ago, and I… can’t find them.”
“When did you last see the boys?”
“Three-fifteen. Maybe three-thirty. Should I… should I know the exact time?”
“No, ma’am. An estimate is fine. And where were they when you last saw them?”
“Here. At the house.”
“And they went missing from this location?”
“No. They were supposed to go to the skate park. But… they never made it there.”
“Were they with anyone?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. And none of their friends at the skate park have seen them either,” I said, my pulse spiking. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be.
“Do they have phones?”
“No. Not… no, they don’t have phones yet. We didn’t want the boys on them all the time. Wanted them outside… being kids—” I stopped, realizing the unintended harm born from good intentions. “Oh, my god.”
“Are they usually home by a certain time?”
“Yes. Six. They always come home for dinner,” I said, pausing. “Something’s wrong. I can feel it. Something’s really wrong.”
“You’re doing the right thing by calling. Stay on the line with me, all right?”
“Yes. Okay.” My breath came out in short punches.
“Mommy.” Grace tugged at my arm. I didn’t look down.
“I’m just going to ask a few more questions,” the woman said. “So the responding officers have the information they need.”
I fought the tears, pressing a fist to my mouth to keep the sound inside.
“What were they wearing when they left?”
“Uh—uh—Kyle had on a gray t-shirt with a surf logo, and black shorts, and Jake—Jake had his blue band shirt… the one with the guitar on it… and jeans. I think. I think so.”
“Mommy.” Grace tugged at me again. “It’s the reindeer man.”
“Not now,” I said, distracted. “Scott?”
He stepped in and scooped her up without a word. As he carried her away, she twisted in his arms just long enough to catch my eye and said, “You let him in.”
I shook my head, dismissing the words. The hair on my arms rose anyway.
“Ma’am,” the dispatcher said. “Did you hear me?”
“Um…” I glanced back at Grace, now in Emma’s arms, tears streaking her cheeks. “Sorry. Can you repeat that?”
“Do either of your sons have any medical conditions we need to be aware of?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Any history of running away?”
“They wouldn’t do that. They’re good boys. They always come home.”
“Okay. You’re doing fine, ma’am. Officers should be arriving shortly.”
I braced myself against the counter. The floor below me felt unsteady.
“I’m scared,” I whispered.
The dispatcher’s voice softened, and I knew instantly she was a mother too. She knew this fear.
“I understand, ma’am. I’m right here with you.”
And then—
A scream tore through the night.
My blood turned to ice.
“Oh, my God,” I gasped. “There’s screaming. Someone’s screaming.”
“Ma’am, stay inside the house. Officers are almost there.”
“No—I—my son—” I didn’t even know what I was saying, only what I was hearing. Kyle. And maybe Jake behind him. “They’re screaming.”
I opened the door. Another cry. I took the steps two at a time. Behind me, chairs scraped, feet pounded, voices rose. My kids were following. Scott was shouting my name. None of it registered in the right order. In my hand, I was still holding the phone and the dispatcher was still talking.
“Ma’am—stay on the line—ma’am? Units are en route. I need you to stay where you are.”
I didn’t answer because I wasn’t going to comply, not until my boys were safely in my arms again. I sprinted down the driveway and into the street.
“Kyle! Jake! I’m here!” I couldn’t see them yet, but I knew Kyle’s scream. I heard it every day when he tried to kick down the bedroom door to throttle Jake. My lungs burned, and my throat was raw from screaming. Porch lights snapped on one by one like the street was just waking up to my nightmare.
Another scream ripped through the dimming light. It was high, hysterical, and getting closer. Then I saw him, rounding into the cul-de-sac: Kyle, running crooked and stumbling toward us, one arm swinging limply by his side.
I dropped to my knees on the pavement and held my arms out.
He crashed into me, his whole body convulsed like he couldn’t get air.
My hands traveled over his face and hair and shoulders like I could fix everything just by touching him.
Dirt streaked his face. Blood—oh god, it had run down from his hairline and carved tracks through the grime on his cheeks.
His whole body was shaking in violent, panicked tremors.
It was then that I thought to look behind him.
For Jake. I waited for him to round the corner like Kyle had. But he wasn’t there.
I tried to speak. To ask. But all I could manage was one word. “Jake?”
His eyes went wide, fixed on something only he could see—some awful replay flashing behind them. A small, choked noise broke from his throat. Then he straightened just enough to get the word out.
“Gone.”
The weight of it dropped all at once, everything collapsing inward as my fingers dug into his bloody cheeks. Somewhere behind me, I heard Quinn crying.
Scott knelt, wrapping his jacket over Kyle and tucking his broken arm in to protect it. Kyle winced, then screamed out in pain.
“I’m sorry, bud,” he said. “I know it hurts. We’re gonna get you help.”
“What do you mean, gone?” I forced out, my thoughts finally snapping into place.
Kyle opened his mouth to speak, but the sounds came out tangled and frantic. They were tripping over each other, too fast to decipher. His mouth moved; nothing made sense. He was terrified. In shock. No help at all.
I took his face in both hands, forcing his eyes up to mine. “Kyle. Look at me.” My demand was too stern for his mental state. “Where is Jake?”
“He told me to run. He told me. I didn’t want to—” Kyle’s body jolted with every breath, hiccupping sobs breaking up his words.
“Kyle, from the start. Tell me from the start.”
“We were jumping the stairs—then—then he—” Kyle clawed at his face with his one good hand like he wanted to rip the memory off.
Scott gripped his hand. “Slow down. Just breathe.”
No, he couldn’t slow down. There was no time for coddling. Kyle needed to speed up. He needed to tell us where Jake was before it was too… late.
“Who’s he?” I asked, trying to keep it together.
“We didn’t see him. He just… he just…”
I felt like shaking him, forcing the words from his throat. “Kyle, please, just tell me where Jake is.”
“I don’t know!” he wailed, voice cracking wide open. “He took him, Mom. He took him.”
I felt my ribs cinch inward like a vise. “Who? Who took him?”
“The man with the gun.”
The screaming down the street started again, only this time, I realized it was coming from me. I didn’t even know I was unraveling until Scott’s hands framed my face and forced me to look at him.
“Stay with me, babe.” His voice was low and tight, trembling around the edges. “I need you. We have to get Kyle home. We need to understand what happened—where it happened—so I can go and get Jake back.”
Yes. Right. Information. Action. Anything but standing here drowning in terror.
Sirens wailed somewhere in the distance.
Scott got an arm around Kyle. Keith came in from the other side, and together they lifted us—me and Kyle both—and guided us forward.
Emma gathered the younger kids, their faces pale and confused, and they clung to her like she was the last solid thing in their world.
Then I heard her, the dispatcher. She was still on the line… still in my hand. And she’d heard everything.
“Ma’am, is that one of your sons?”
“Yes. Kyle. He’s here. He’s hurt.”
“And your other son, Jake. Is he still missing?”
Scott was talking to Kyle in the background, pressing him for the location while neighbors spilled out of their houses, watching us pass like our panic had a gravitational pull.
Mrs. Rojas clutched her robe at her throat.
“Michelle? What’s happening?” And questions just kept coming—firing from every porch, every walkway, every stunned face.
Is he all right? What happened? Do you need help?
Yes! I wanted to scream. Bring my son back. But the rage boiling up inside me stayed locked up tight. How dare that man! How dare he take my child!
“Ma’am,” the dispatcher cut back in. “I need confirmation. Is your other son still missing?”
Scott answered for me, somehow keeping it together. “Yes. He’s been taken by a man with a gun at the business park off Levin.”
I wanted to hit him for saying those words. For making them true.
“Understood. Officers are just turning in. You should see them now.”
Two squad cars whipped into the cul-de-sac.
This was the moment every innocent explanation died.
Jake didn’t get hurt, didn’t get lost, didn’t get confused.
Someone took him and forced him away at gunpoint.
My son was kidnapped, and no amount of hope was going to bring him home on his own.
I knew then, with a horror I’d never outrun, that Jake was out there somewhere screaming for me, and I wasn’t there to save him.
I stood at the window, numb, my forehead pressed to the cool glass, staring into the dark as if I could will it to give my son back.