Mom had called it a road trip. We’re going on a road trip. Doesn’t that sound like fun?
Even as a kid, I knew the higher register in her voice was a dead giveaway that all was not fun. The lilt in her voice was testament that she was hiding something. That she was lying.
She was afraid.
Mom let me sit in the front seat with her. Even I knew kids weren’t supposed to sit in the passenger seat, not until they were older. But this was a special adventure. Just us, she’d said.
I hadn’t taken a bath since we’d left. Neither of us had. The car was beginning to ripen. The oiliness in the air, thick with French fry grease and body odor and breath, was only growing denser. Every time I rolled down the window, Mom would insist I roll it back up.
Don’t, she said, almost shouting. We can’t let them in.
How far were we going? Mom never said. Every time I tried asking her, she’d pretend like she hadn’t heard me. Where are we going, Mom? I asked and asked. Where are we now?
An eighteen-wheeler barreled by, overtaking our car and blaring its horn. I could hear the rapid-fire attack of gravel kicking up and hammering the underbelly of our chassis as Mom momentarily let the station wagon slip off the road and onto the shoulder. She had to recover, yanking on the wheel, bringing our car back onto the highway with a stomach-turning swerve.
Another car quickly came up behind us. The moment Mom noticed it in the rearview, her hands tightened around the steering wheel, fingers knotting, knuckles about to burst. The engine heaved, sending the car forward. The car was straining under the weight of Mom’s foot.
Glancing at the dashboard, I saw the arrow on the speedometer reaching seventy miles per hour.
Seventy-five.
Eighty.
A swirling hue of red and blue lights suddenly filled our car. The dancing spiral of colors spun over the ceiling and seats, as if we were at a carnival. Even my skin was speckled in red.
Get down, Mom said, glancing into the rearview.
I turned around in my seat before ducking down. Just to see who was behind us.
Someone was in the car. Behind me the whole time. Staring back at me.
The high beams of the police car shined right into my eyes, so all I could make out was the shadowy silhouette of our passenger sitting in my booster seat. Where I usually sat.
Their features hid in the dark. But they were—
There.
Their body was nothing but muck, shadow and grease, like they didn’t want to be seen.
The gray boy.
He reached out for me. He called out my name: Sean…
I closed my eyes. Squeezed them shut. Blotting it all out. Make it go away, I thought to myself, make it go away go away go away…
The siren wailing through the rain. The hammer of the storm against the roof of our station wagon. Mom’s voice as she kept saying everything’s going to be okay everything’s going to be fine just don’t stop don’t stop stay down don’t move.
But all I could think about was the gray boy in the back seat of our car, the gray boy who knew my name who whispered to me who knew my name the gray boy reaching out for me—
The gray boy knows my name—
The gray boy—
The gray—
When I open my eyes, all I see is Elijah fast asleep in the back seat.
The windows are full of green once again, a sea of stalks bristling in the dark. The smell of hay is still in my skin. I bring my hand up and take a deep breath, filling my lungs with it.
It’s okay. Everything’s okay. I had simply drifted off. Just a bad memory.
Just a dream, as they say. Don’t they say that? Just a bad dream.
When we pull into our driveway, the headlights barely brush over a creamy tangle hovering in the air, just visible above the backyard fence. Something is dangling from the willow tree bough where Eli’s tire swing hangs. I only see it for the split second the high beams pass over it before it sinks back into blackness. Tamara doesn’t mention it. She must still be lost in her litany of worst-case scenarios.
I extract Eli from the back seat. It takes some maneuvering to unbuckle him, scooping him out from the booster without his limbs tangling in his seatbelt.
Tamara opens the front door for us. We never lock up the house. Not here. None of our neighbors do. Nobody in Danvers does. But lately I’ve been wondering if that’s wise.
I carry Elijah upstairs. He feels so light. A doll. Raggedy Andy. He doesn’t wake in the transition from my arms to his bed. I don’t know how long I sit there staring at him.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out and silence the ringer.
The area code. I know it. It’s—
I’m not going to pick up. I let it go straight to voicemail. Once I know Elijah isn’t going to wake, I tuck him in and close his door.
I sidestep the kitchen. Tamara’s waiting for me in there but I have to go out back. I slide a box cutter from the hallway table into my pocket and slip outside.
I need to see.
We added the tire swing to one of the weeping willow’s branches only a few months ago, during the summer, giving Eli something to do whenever we were out back. I would give him a push if he ever asked for one, sending him higher into the air, his feet piercing the sky.
But the tire isn’t where it’s supposed to be. Someone cut the rope that tied it to the branch.
In its place is a body.
Weegee is hanging upside
