Emma's hands shook as she gripped the steering wheel, the police station looming ahead like a gray fortress under the overcast sky. The events of the morning replayed in her mind—Ethan's defiant glare, the police bursting through the door, the officer's chilling words: This isn't his first run-in with us. Her stomach churned. How had she missed this? Her son, her Ethan, caught up in something as serious as theft? The world felt unsteady, as if the ground had shifted beneath her.
David sat beside her, silent, his jaw tight. The familiar hum of their old sedan was the only sound, but even that felt wrong, like a song played in the wrong key. Emma glanced at him, searching for the steady husband she knew, but his eyes were fixed on the road, distant. "David, why didn't you tell me?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "About Ethan. About… whatever he's been doing."
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Emma, I tried. You've been… distracted. You're always somewhere else lately." His words carried a weight she couldn't parse, a mix of worry and exasperation.
"Distracted?" She gripped the wheel tighter, her knuckles whitening. "He's our son, David. How could I not know he's been in trouble?"
David didn't answer, and the silence stung. They pulled into the station's parking lot, the air heavy with the threat of rain. Inside, the station was a blur of fluorescent lights and clipped voices. Ethan sat in a holding room, his leather jacket slung over the chair, his head bowed. When Emma entered, he looked up, his eyes a storm of anger and shame.
"Mom," he muttered, barely audible. "I didn't steal it. I swear."
She knelt in front of him, her heart aching at the sight of his hunched shoulders, the boy she'd tucked into bed years ago now looking like a stranger. "Then what happened, Ethan? Tell me." Her voice was soft, pleading, but her mind flickered with doubt. Noah's words—You'll see them in Paris—and Lily's note lingered like ghosts, tugging at her focus.
Ethan's jaw tightened. "It was just a borrow. Me and some guys… we were messing around. I didn't know it was stolen." He looked away, his fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on his jeans.
The officer from earlier, Officer Daniels, stepped in, his expression stern but not unkind. "Mrs. Carter, your son was seen riding a motorcycle reported stolen last night. Witnesses place him at the scene of the crash. He's lucky no one was hurt." He paused, glancing at Ethan. "We're releasing him to you for now, but he'll need to appear in court."
Emma nodded, her throat tight, but her mind was elsewhere, snagged on a memory that didn't fit. A girl's face—Lily's scowl. A boy's notebook—Noah's stars. She shook her head, forcing herself back to Ethan. "We'll fix this," she said, more to herself than to him. "We'll figure it out."
Back home, Ethan retreated to his room, slamming the door. Emma followed, pausing outside, her hand hovering over the knob. She needed answers, not just about the motorcycle, but about the fracture in her reality. She pushed the door open, finding Ethan sprawled on his bed, earbuds in, staring at the ceiling. His room was a mess—sketchbooks, clothes, and empty soda cans scattered across the floor. Something caught her eye: a folded piece of paper tucked under a sketchbook.
She hesitated, then picked it up, unfolding it carefully. It was a letter, written in neat, looping handwriting that wasn't Ethan's. "I know it's hard, but I need you to be strong. I'm scared, Ethan. Meet me tonight—S." The signature was just an initial, but the words hit Emma like a wave. A girl. Someone important to Ethan. Someone he was hiding.
"Ethan, who's S?" she asked, holding up the letter.
He sat up, yanking out his earbuds, his face paling. "Where'd you get that?" He snatched the paper from her, his voice sharp. "You can't just go through my stuff!"
"I'm your mother," she snapped, then softened, seeing the panic in his eyes. "Ethan, I'm trying to help you. Who is she?"
He looked away, his shoulders slumping. "Sophie. She's… my girlfriend." The word came out reluctantly, like a confession. "But you wouldn't get it. You don't even notice me anymore."
The accusation stung, echoing David's words. Emma opened her mouth to argue, but the weight of his words settled over her. Had she been distracted? Lost in… what? Visions of other children, other lives? She reached for him, but he pulled back, his eyes hard.
"Ethan, I'm here now. Talk to me."
He shook his head, crumpling the letter in his fist. "You don't know what it's like. She's… she's sick, okay? And I can't fix it." His voice broke, and for a moment, he was her little boy again, scared and vulnerable.
Emma's heart stopped. Sick. The word triggered something deep, a memory of hospital corridors, beeping monitors, and small, fragile hands. She pushed it down, focusing on Ethan. "What do you mean, sick? Tell me everything."
But before he could answer, David called from downstairs. "Emma, phone! It's the lawyer."
She hesitated, torn between Ethan's pain and the urgency of the moment. As she turned to leave, Ethan's voice stopped her, low and bitter. "You're always leaving, Mom. Just like she said you would."
Emma froze, her hand on the doorframe. "Who said that?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Ethan didn't answer, but the name hung in the air—Sophie. And with it, a creeping dread that this girl, this sickness, was tied to the unraveling threads of her reality.