The Perfect Son by Freida McFadden(23)

My heart is still pounding at the thought of it. I have to take deep breaths, trying to calm myself down.

I turn my head to look at Jason, who is sound asleep beside me. He’s snoring softly like he always does when he sleeps on his back. His pale eyelashes flutter slightly, but he doesn’t stir. Jason has always been a deep sleeper, and he rarely suffers from insomnia. A long time ago, before we had Liam, I could have woken him up to tell him about my nightmare. He wouldn’t have been mad. He would have put his arm around me, pulled me close to him, and made me feel like everything was all right again.

But Jason doesn’t have the ability to make me feel that way anymore. Nothing can. And he has to wake up early in the morning and commute into the city. I can’t wake him up. It wouldn’t be fair to him.

It was so simple back when we were young. I met Jason over twenty years ago. I was writing an article on the tech startup company he had helped found that was quickly becoming very successful. His red-tinged brown hair, that our daughter later would inherit, was in need of a haircut and he was also in need of a shave, but he looked adorable. As he explained what the company did, his blue eyes progressively getting wider and more excited, I blurted out, “I have to tell you, I think you’re the smartest guy I’ve ever met.”

Jason stopped mid-sentence and blinked at me. “Is that a good thing?”

I didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“Good. Because I think you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever met.”

We were inseparable for a long time after that. We even spent a summer traveling through Europe in style after Jason sold his company for a bundle of money. It was on the Eiffel tower that he got down on one knee and proposed to me. Maybe it was cliché, but it was one of the most romantic things I could imagine.

I love Jason even more than I did that day, but admittedly, the romance isn’t what it used to be. I hate that he has to travel so far to get to work every day. And I hate the not infrequent business trips he has to take. And I’ve hated it even more since an incident that happened two years ago.

Jason told me he had a late dinner meeting at work with an investor. This is something that happens from time to time, and I didn’t think much of it. But then when he came home, he was grinning ear to ear and reeking of an unfamiliar perfume. I smelled it the second he kissed me hello. And right after that, he made a beeline for the shower.

He spent the next few weeks being particularly attentive to me. Flowers, expensive dinners out—even some diamond earrings he had caught me admiring on my computer. I couldn’t help but think that Jason was filling out every checkbox for signs of a cheating husband.

I considered confronting him about it, but in my heart, I didn’t believe my husband was a cheater. I imagined how hurt he would be if I even suggested it. I finally decided I must have imagined the perfume. Or maybe he had dinner with an investor that had particularly strong-smelling perfume and the scent clung to him. It’s like when you go out to a bar and come home reeking of smoke, even if you haven’t had a cigarette.

And after that night, I never smelled it again. So even if it did happen, it never happened again.

But there’s still that worry in the back of my head. Especially now that Jason has gotten “hot.” I wish his hours weren’t so long. I wish waitresses didn’t flirt with him when we go to restaurants, even if he doesn’t flirt back. Ultimately, I do trust him though. I don’t think he would ever cheat on me—not really.

After all, it’s not worrying about my husband that keeps me up at night.

“Jason,” I whisper. I don’t want to wake him up, but if he happens to be up, then I wouldn’t be at fault.

He snores.

Fine. He isn’t waking up. And I’m not going to fall asleep again so fast. May as well get up and make myself some tea.

I slide my feet into my slippers and grab my fluffy blue housecoat from the dresser where I throw it every morning. I yawn and pad out into the hallway. I start for the staircase, but something stops me.

The door to Liam’s bedroom is ajar.

Liam never leaves the door to his bedroom open at night. Ever. Not even when he was five years old. He always wants the door closed tight. The sight of that door slightly open is as terrifying to me as my nightmare. When it comes to Liam, unexpected is always bad.

I walk over to the bedroom door and push it the rest of the way open. I squint into the darkness of my son’s room.

It’s empty.

I race down to the living room, my heart pounding. Maybe I’ll find Liam on the couch, watching television. Like me, he often has difficulty sleeping. Even though I make him go to bed at ten, I know he’s up far later. He told me once that he only needs five hours of sleep.

But Liam isn’t in the living room. And he’s not in the kitchen. Or either of the bathrooms—downstairs or upstairs. I comb the entire house and even look out on the porch and in the backyard before I race back up the stairs to my bedroom.

“Jason!”

So much for not waking him up. But our son is missing. I can’t not say anything to him. What am I supposed to do now? Go back to sleep after Liam vanished from his room in the middle of the night?

Jason’s eyes crack open. He rubs at them with the back of his fists like he’s two years old. “Erika?”

“Liam’s gone!” I wring my hands together. “He’s not in the house. He went somewhere.”