“Something’s wrong,” he said.
“We don’t know that.”
“Mom. Something’s wrong.”
I knew it too. I’d known Greg Bennett since I was nineteen years old. I knew every one of his warning signs the way you know the creak of a stair in your own house.
“Do you know where he lives?” I asked.
“An apartment on Fulton Street. Above the laundromat.”
I started the car.
His truck wasn’t at the apartment. We knocked anyway. Nobody answered. The woman at the laundromat downstairs said she hadn’t seen him since Thursday night.
“He was in a bad way,” she said. “He said it was the anniversary of something. His father, I think.”
Sam looked at me. “Grandpa died in December. Dad told me. It was the drinking. He said that’s when it got really bad for him too, after Grandpa.”
I remembered. Greg’s father had died the December before Sam was born. Greg had disappeared for three days that year too.
