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I shake my head. Although we live in a small town located at the southernmost tip of the Appalachian Mountains, where being an outdoorsman is a way of life, my son has never been drawn to nature the way that I am.
“What about video games?” Jackson asks.
“No. He reads and draws, and he recently got into painting.”
“What does he like to paint?”
“Abstract images, mostly. Colorful things.”
Chaos on canvas.Those were my exact thoughts the moment I saw his first painting. Blurred lines of color, melting together into a dizzying kaleidoscope.
“I’d love to see a few of his paintings when we’re done here.”
I look at my husband. “Of course.”
“Any signs of depression?”
I find myself hesitating. “He ... lately, he’s been exceptionally quiet. It’s alarmed me a bit.”
“Any idea why?”
“He’s a teenager,” Tristan says, unhelpfully inserting himself into the conversation.
“A moody teenager, I get it.” The officer pauses. “How has school been for him? I know that he doesn’t have many friends, but do you know if he was bullied?”
“Not that I’m aware of— No, he wasn’t. He would have told me.”
“Walk me through his typical day. How was today supposed to go for him?”
I clear my throat. I’m vibrating with energy but force myself to sit still. Back straight, hands folded on my lap. Like a lady.
“James left the house the same time he always does—just before seven forty. He goes straight to school and comes straight home after. He’s home by three fifteen every day.”
“So, there was nothing special on his agenda today?”
“No.”
“What was his attitude when he left?”
I feel the sting of tears and quickly choke them back.Never let them see you cry.
“He was normal. But ... but ...” I feel Tristan’s gaze boring into me. “He did, um, he did tell me he loved me.”
“Does he always tell you he loves you before he leaves for school?”
“No.” My stomach is twisting so viciously now that I feel like I might be sick.
The officer scrutinizes Tristan, who is now staring at a spot on the floor. The tension is suddenly so thick, it feels suffocating.
“Nina, is there any reason James would want to run away?”
“No,” Tristan says before I can answer. “He has a stable family, a nice house. We give him the space he needs when he needs it. He has it better than most kids his age.”
Jackson allows Tristan’s comment to hang in the air long enough that my internal red flag rises. Finally, he says, “So, if you feel confident that he didn’t run away, do you think something happened to him? That he was kidnapped?”
I flinch at the word.
“I don’t know what I think!” Tristan bellows. “I’m just answering all of your bullshit questions when instead you should be out looking for my son.”
