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At 7:38 on the morning of March 9, 2001, seventeen-year-old James Carrington left his home address of 1296 North Cherry Street to go to school. He was never seen or heard from again.
Nina
March 09, 2001: 8:37 p.m.
“Does your son have any identifiable marks on his body? Like tattoos or birthmarks?”
“No.” A bead of sweat rolls down my back.
My husband is pacing the kitchen like a caged animal. I wish he’d stop.
“No birthmarks?” the police officer asks, regaining my attention. “Weird moles, nothing?”
“No.”
I want to reach across the kitchen table and rip off the officer’s ridiculous facial hair—almost as much as I want to slap my husband across the face and tell him to get it together.
Self-control. Neither my husband nor I have it. The difference is, I know how to mask my weaknesses.
“How about a beard?” the officer asks. “Mustache, sideburns?”
Although Officer Barrett Jackson and I have only just met, I’ve already labeled him as incompetent, which only adds to the anxiety and urgency coursing through my veins. He’s a baby, mid-twenties is my best guess, with a rust-colored handlebar mustache and a cartoonish square chin. Atop his head sits a beige cowboy hat, a bit crooked. A rookie cop tasked to assist in the worst day of my life.
Impatient, I push the picture I’ve already provided of my son across the table. “No. No identifiable marks, as you can see.”
It is his Rock Hill High School picture. In it, my son is smiling, though it doesn’t quite reach his brown eyes. His snow-white hair (like mine) is mussed, and his collar is wrinkled and askew as if he’d just pulled his shirt from his backpack.
My gut twists. I look away.
“What about—”
Our attention whips in the direction of something clattering to the floor in another room. Tristan, my husband, lunges toward the doorway. The officer and I push back from the kitchen table and surge to our feet.
“Sir.” Jackson grabs Tristan’s arm. “Please let them conduct their search.”
My husband whirls around, and for a moment I think he is going to strike the officer.
“I don’t understand why they have to search the damn house in the first place. What the hell are they looking for? And why haven’t you called in the Georgia State Police yet? Mysonismissing.”
“I understand, Mr. Carrington, and as I said before, we’re searching your house for any information or evidence that can help find your missing son. I know it’s uncomfortable—”
“Uncomfortable?” Tristan snorts. “Complete strangers are going through every room in my home while I am forced to stand in the kitchen with my hands metaphorically tied behind my back. I told you, there isn’t anything in the house that will tell you where he is. James left for school and never came—”
“That’senough, Tristan,” I snap.
My husband shoots me a look of vile hatred, one that I have seen many times before. He is ugly in this situation, a far cry from the charming, handsome writer I married years ago.
Tristan returns to the middle of the kitchen to pace, his hands at his sides, balled into fists. He’s bulked up in the last few months. The once baggy T-shirt he is wearing is now tight across his chest. His jeans, snug around the thighs. Meanwhile, I’ve gained weight, which I’ve concealed in a caftan that brushes my ankles.
Funny how that happens, isn’t it?
I turn back to the officer. This time, however, we don’t sit. Jackson is keeping one eye on the loose cannon that is my husband.
“Now, Mrs. Carrington—”
“You can call me Nina.”
