Page 21 of Middle of the Night

“Dad,” Ashley says, her voice low with concern. “Billy wasn’t outside last night.”

“He was so. I saw him running through the backyard.”

“What time was this?” I say, my interest suddenly piqued.

Mr. Wallace thinks it over for a slice of a second. “A little after two.”

Despite the hard heat of the day, a chill washes over me.

That was roughly the same time I watched the light above the Wallaces’ garage flick on for no discernible reason.

I look to Ashley, whose expression is rightly skeptical—in addition to pinched, worried, and unbearably sad. “Billy hasn’t been around in decades, Dad,” she says. “You know that.”

“And I know what I saw, dammit.”

Ashley takes her father by the arm. “Let’s get you inside. Remember what the doctor said about needing your rest.” To me, she flashes an apologetic look before saying, “I really need to get going. Catch up later?”

“Sure,” I say. As nice as it is to see Ashley again, all the memories and feelings of nostalgia are so overwhelming that I’m honestly relieved our reunion has been cut short. There’ll be plenty of time to catch up later. Besides, all I can think about is what Mr. Wallace just said—and how it supports my own experience last night.

I wave goodbye to Henry and, baseball in hand, head home. Rather than use the sidewalk, I cut across the cul-de-sac itself, curving around the planter in the middle of the circle. At my own yard, a flashback hits when I step onto the curb. Me in the driveway last night sensing someone else outside, present yet hidden. And the only person I thought of is the same person Mr. Wallace claims to have seen in his backyard.

Is there even the slightest possibility that both of us could be right?

Inside the house, I head straight to my father’s study. There, I open my laptop and bring up Billy’s NamUs listing. Still missing. But just because the database says it doesn’t mean it’s accurate. It just means that no one—not even the authorities—knows where he is.

That leaves a chance, however small and improbable, that Billy is alive.

That he returned to Hemlock Circle last night.

That he could still be here right now.

I scan the laptop screen, seeking out the police contact listed on NamUs. Next to Ragesh Patel’s name is a number to call with any information regarding the case. Without thinking, I grab my phone and dial.

Ragesh answers on the second ring with a harried “Detective Patel. What’s the nature of your call?”

I pause, jarred by how different he sounds since the last time we spoke. Gone is the teenage snark I’ve always associated with the older kid who once lived two doors down from me. In its place is a voice that’s deeper, gruffer, and extremely tired.

“Hey, Ragesh. It’s Ethan Marsh. From Hemlock Circle.”

Ragesh spends a moment doing the same thing I just did. Trying to match a name with a voice that’s changed dramatically. He probably pictures me as a the gangly, gawky ten-year-old I used to be and not the no-longer-gangly-but-still-slightly-gawky forty-year-old I’ve become.

“Ethan, hi,” he says. “How can I help you?”

“I’m calling about Billy Barringer.”

“What about him?” Ragesh says, hesitation drawing out the question to twice its length.

“Have there been any updates?”

“Why are you interested in Billy’s case?”

A baffling question. He was taken from my backyard while he slept next to me. Whywouldn’tI still be interested?

“I just moved back into my parents’ house,” I say. “Since being here’s brought back a lot of memories, I figured I’d see if there was any news.”

Not a lie, but far from the complete truth.

“What have you heard? How much do you know?” Ragesh says, lowering his voice.

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