The end of a relationship doesn’t always have to be someone’s fault.

  All I know is that I suddenly couldn’t stand another minute of the life I was living with you. I know that sounds harsh and I want you to know that I do love you, but not as a husband, lover, or partner. I love you as the kind person and the dear friend you are. I know these words hurt, but you need to hear them so you’ll hopefully at least have a bit of understanding for why I did what I did.

  What I said above is key: I suddenly couldn’t stand another minute of the life I was living. For me, the future looked bleak and, sadly, not worth living. I considered killing myself, which might surprise you.

  I needed to get out, to start over, to live anew.

  Before it was too late.

  I turned the sheet over to continue reading. I barely noticed the tears on my face until they spotted the paper in my hand.

  So, one day, without thinking about it, I packed a few things and just left. You can probably never forgive me for that action, but know this: I simply had to walk out. If I didn’t do it that day, I might never have. I don’t know why. Inertia? I do know that if I stayed one more minute, I was assuring myself a kind of death, either one that would take years or one that would come much more quickly.

  I want to talk again, to see your face, to assure you this is certainly the old cliché about being more about me than you.

  But for now, I need this time on my own. Understand, even if you now hate me. Or if you can’t understand…hell, I don’t know what to tell you to do.

  I will be in touch.

  I am okay.

  Live your life. You can start over too. You might find that my walking out was the best thing that ever happened to you.

  I hope the same will be true for me.

  I’ll be in touch soon.

  Love,

  Marc

  I flung the letter to the floor, where Vito sniffed it, and then lifted his leg and pissed on it.

  “Bless you,” I whispered, and my tears turned to laughter that bordered on hysteria.

  I sat there on the couch for the longest time. The night came along fully, stealing the light from the room, until I was that pathetic character sitting alone in the dark. Vito snored on the couch beside me. The evenness of his breathing lulled me. My head lolled to the back of the couch and I drifted off with my pup.

  A dark wood. An opening in the trees.

  Jeb moves into that opening, the shadows swallowing him up.

  “Don’t go back there!” I shout, but there’s little volume to it despite the fact I feel I’m screaming.

  But he hears me. He hears me!

  He turns and, smiling, returns to me.

  I woke to the sound of someone knocking on my door. I sat more upright, disoriented and wondering what decade I’m in, where I am. Vito stared at me with concerned brown eyes. I must have been yelling in my sleep.

  “How did someone get in?” I wondered to the dog, to no one in particular.

  I stood and stretched. The knocking sounded again. I hurried to quiet it, thinking that even though I had no idea of the time, that it was late. I didn’t want to disturb my neighbors.

  I opened the door, unprepared for the psychological punch in the gut I was about to endure.

  Jeb leaned against the door frame, eyeing me.

  Chapter 11

  1986—Jeb

  I

  Jeb hated to leave Sammy and Trudy alone to pack things up, but god almighty, did he have to pee! He was embarrassed over even the slightest indication that he had normal bodily functions, so for the last hour or so, he had held it, hoping the insistent urge would go away, to return when he was safely in the privacy of a bathroom with the door locked.

  No such luck.

  The need to relieve himself only increased and became stronger the more he tried to ignore it.

  When he told Sammy, he got what he expected—a little ridicule and the attitude of, dude, what the hell’s with you? Just go.

  And now he wandered into the pitch darkness of the woods in front of him, hand outstretched to avoid running into a branch or worse, a tree bark, or even worse than that, a bear or a coyote. There’d been more than one sighting of both over the years.

  Were there footsteps behind him? Sammy, trying to get a peek? He’d laugh if it weren’t for the darkness and the slight aura of fear surrounding him. He told himself he was being paranoid. The sounds were simply leaves in the trees, animals, and insects, all doing what they usually did.

  As he finished up, shaking off for good measure, he noticed how his eyes had adjusted a bit. The moon tonight was bright, lending a silvery opalescence to the path he’d traveled. He’d come farther than he’d realized. As he glanced over his shoulder, he couldn’t even see Sammy or, in fact, the opening to the woods.

  His gut lurched. He hoped he wasn’t lost. Just turn around, put one foot in front of the other and go back the way you came. Simple. Easy. Don’t panic.

  His last bit of self-advice was born off on the wind, though, when he turned a little more and noticed someone standing not three feet away, watching.

  Jeb gasped and froze.

  The only sound for a few moments was the wind whispering through the leaves and the rhythmic chirp of crickets. A firefly danced in the night air, winking gold.

  Jeb tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry.

  The man leaning against a tree was older, maybe mid-thirties, early forties. It was hard to tell, what with the dark and his own limited perception around judging anyone’s age, anyone who wasn’t a kid, anyway. What made him look so creepy wasn’t anything weird, though. He wore a Steelers black T-shirt and a pair of light-colored cargo shorts. Black high-top Converses. A black baseball cap. If Jeb had encountered him on the street in downtown St. Clair or, say, the grocery store, he wouldn’t have even noticed the guy.

  Before Jeb had a chance to ask him who he was, the man spoke.

  “Sorry, Jeb. I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m a friend of your dad’s. Chris Sgro?” He smiled and Jeb relaxed, but only a little. This was still too weird. What was this guy doing hanging out in the woods, watching a kid take a piss? He wanted to simply turn and run, but that would be even weirder, right?

  “So?” He’d never heard of a Chris Sgro and it wasn’t like his dad had a ton of friends. Jeb turned back toward the path. He was pretty sure this was the way to Sammy and his mom. He took a step in what he hoped was the right direction.

  “I came up here actually to find you.”

  “Really?” Now, that was odd. Jeb assumed anyone else coming up here would have passed them as they sat on their blanket in the grass. “How’d you get here? Didn’t notice you go by, man.”

  Chris laughed. “Yeah, there’s more than one way up here.” He pointed in the opposite direction, away from where Jeb guessed Sammy and his mom were still waiting, probably getting a little worried. How long had it been?

  “Okay.” Jeb shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He noticed how silent the night had gone, as if the fireworks had left a vacuum in their wake in which no sound could be heard. “Listen, I need to get back to my friends.” He didn’t add, “I don’t know what you want and I don’t want to know.”

  “Wait, Jeb. Your dad sent me up here.”

  The statement did make Jeb pause. “Why? What’s the matter?”

  “It’s your ma.”

  Jeb felt a bump in his blood pressure and heart rate. His parents weren’t exactly Carol and Mike Brady. They liked, as Ma said, to feel good. “What happened? Is she okay?”

  “I think she will be. But your dad wanted me to come get you, bring you to City Hospital.”

  Jeb shook his head. “Did she OD again?” He asked the question without emotion. It had happened before. And, as he’d thought many times before, a kid shouldn’t have to worry about one or both of his parents overdosing.

  “I’m afraid so. A little too much Peruvian marching powder, if you know what I mean.”

  Jeb did and wished fervently he did not. Oh god, why can’t you guys just be normal?

  “Come on. I think she’ll be okay, but these things can go bad quick. We need to get to her.” He pointed in the opposite direction again. “Quickest way down. C’mon.”

  Jeb peered into the shadows and could, indeed, see an opening and the beginning of a path. “I need to tell my friends.” He turned back the way he’d come.

  Chris Sgro grabbed his arm, but gently, and forced Jeb to meet his gaze. “There’s no time, son. I lied. She isn’t good. It’s her heart. You need to come with me now. You can call your friends once we get to the hospital, explain what’s happened.”

  “But they’ll be worried.” He imagined Sammy and Trudy waiting out there. But this was his mom. Could she die? His mom would never win any mother-of-the-year prize, but she was his. And she was the only one he had.

  It was an impossible choice, but he felt the right way was with this guy. He seemed normal. He seemed in control. He didn’t seem to pose a threat.

  Harmless, right?

  Jeb knew it might not be the smartest choice, but he trusted him—at least in that moment. He sighed. “Okay.”

  Chris Sgro led him out of the woods. It was only a journey of a few feet. They were out of the woods in seconds. The path turned to the right and then dropped steeply downhill, a rock-strewn trail, where Jeb could see a van waiting at the bottom. Its color was hard to pinpoint in the dark. He assumed it was Sgro’s.

  Silently, Jeb followed the guy down to the van. Once they were there, Chris opened the passenger door. “Hop in and don’t forget to buckle up.”

  Jeb, trusting of adults, did as he was told. All he could think about was his mother. This wasn’t the first time he feared losing her. Flawed as she was, he still loved her with all his heart.

  Instead of getting in the passenger side, Chris said, “I got to get something in the back. There’s a loose oil can or some shit rolling around there and it’s driving me nuts.”

  “Okay.”

  Jeb listened as he opened the rear doors. The eyes of an animal, glowing gold in the darkness, peered at him from the edge of the woods.

  Before he knew what was happening, though, Sgro was behind him, reaching across his left shoulder to place a foul-smelling rag over his mouth and nose.

  Before Jeb could even wonder what it was and why it smelled so awful, the world went black.

  II

  Jeb stirred a little. His mouth was dry and his head ached. His eyes burned. He closed them again, keeping still.

  How much time had passed?

  Why weren’t they at the hospital?

  He let out a small groan, one he imagined a sleeping person would make, and tried to shift a little to his side.

  It was then he realized he was now in the back of the van, on his back. The cold, uneven metal surface hurt his back. The guy had bound his wrists and ankles. There was a cloth over his mouth, tied tightly behind his head. At least it smelled only of laundry detergent.

  The road thrummed underneath him. There was no other sound, save for the van’s engine and the hum of tires on pavement.

  He’d been so easily trapped.

  What’s gonna happen next? Where is he taking me?

  Chapter 12

  Now—Sam

  I

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, stepping out into the corridor, mainly to prevent Vito, who was sniffing around my feet, from having any contact with the man.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Are you crazy? I mean, seriously, are you nuts?” This was all too much. I longed to get back to the life Marc said from which he needed to escape—mind-numbingly boring, routine, no surprises. It sounded like heaven.

  My heart raced, though. I was afraid I might pass out. Breathe, just breathe. And I really tried.

  It helped…a little.

  Jeb said, “A lot of folks might say I am nuts.” He smiled weakly. “But those same folks, every last one of ‘em, will also tell you I’m as harmless as a pussycat.”

  “I have no reason to believe you.” I shrugged. “Cats have claws and teeth.”

  “You’re right. You don’t have any reason to trust me.” He fingered the amethyst pendant hanging at his collarbone. Was it a taunt? He retreated a couple of steps. “Would you maybe consider allowing me the chance, small as you determine, to try to earn your trust?”

  “Why should I do that?” I simply wanted to go back inside, turn both locks on the door, and go into my bedroom, where I’d hide under the covers, Vito’s warm presence my only solace.

  Yet I remained frozen in place. I said, “And don’t tell me it’s because you’re Jeb. You’re not.” I shook my head. “For one, where are the moles you once had on your face?” I nodded. “I remembered.”

  Whoever this man was sucked in a breath of air and his mouth stayed open for a few seconds longer than what might be considered normal. He glanced down at the floor and then gave what appeared to be a sheepish grin. “As Joan Rivers once said, ‘Can we talk?’”

  I wasn’t amused. No, I was anxious and sick to my stomach. “No. I don’t think so. Not unless you’re ready to give me some answers. Some truthful answers.” I reached back to grasp the doorknob, indicating I’d had enough and was ready to go back in.

  “Okay. Fair enough.” He forced me to meet his gaze and when our eyes were locked, he said, “It’s true. I’m not Jeb.”

  So, it was just as I thought. And not as I’d hoped. This is all a ruse. But what’s the endgame? It wasn’t money, that was for sure. Blood from a turnip and all that. “I knew it. I think I knew it from the first moment I laid eyes on you. There’s something instinctive in us, something that allows us to recognize each other.” I eyed him. “And I didn’t recognize you. What’s your game, man?”

  He held up a placating hand. “Wait. No games. Hear me out. I’m not Jeb, it’s true, and I apologize for pretending to be him. But what you don’t know is that I knew Jeb. I knew him for a long time and, once upon a time, we had quite a bond. If you want to know, I can tell you what happened to him.”

  Oh my god. This is too much. I don’t know what to say. Finally, a couple words came to me. “Tell me.”

  “Can we go someplace? Is there a café or something near?”

  “Of course there is. Go on outside. Hang out in the courtyard. I’ll be down in a minute.”

  I didn’t wait for him to do as I asked. I scurried back inside, locked the door behind me, and went into my bedroom to change clothes. I slid into a pair of faded black jeans and a gray Keith Haring sweatshirt, red Hoka running shoes. I glanced at myself in the mirror over the dresser and asked, “What do you care?”

  I debated for about a minute, thinking I could simply leave him outside and never see him again. But then who would answer all my questions?

  I was about to hurry out to meet him, but not until I’d let poor Vito know that I’d be back soon and we’d have a nice, long walk, but only if he was a “very good boy.” Vito looked at me as though he understood my words completely. And maybe he did.

  He curled up on one side of the couch, head to toe, and closed his eyes.

  And I rushed out the door.

  At least this night, this strange meeting might bring some answers.

  II

  The Nervous Center was just a little south on Sheridan Road. I liked the café precisely because it was nothing like a Starbucks or a Peet’s. A small storefront, it felt more like someone’s living room. There were a few broken down couches, covered with bright quilts, scattered across the scuffed and dark hardwood floors. In front of each was a different thrift-store coffee table, piled with old magazines, board games, and decks of cards. A display case near the serving area held oddities—plastic shrunken heads, programs to plays downtown, the most recent of which was a road production of Wicked from the early oughts, a lightbulb, a rusty pair of pliers, a signed photograph of Tura Satana from Russ Meyer’s classic, Faster Pussycat, Kill, Kill. The ephemera seemed to have no rhyme or reason, but it constantly changed and was never boring.

  Jazz played—Miles Davis, Oscar Peterson, Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, and other icons. The music, soft, competed with the growl of the espresso machine and the coffee foamer.

  Another glass case displayed home-made chocolate chip cookies, lemon bars, brownies, and an assortment of Danish.

  I had no appetite.

  We’d taken a table near the front window. Traffic flowed by, a bright-eyed endless train on Sheridan Road. I brought a mug of Earl Grey to the table and whatever-his-name-was had an Americano.

  We sat in silence, sipping, although I suspect neither of us was thirsty or hungry.

  At last, I repeated the words I’d used in my hallway. “Tell me.”

  He cocked his head. “Where do I start?”

  “Your name would be a good place. But I don’t want bullshit. I don’t want some aka, you know.”

  “Fair enough.” He leaned forward and, from his back pocket, withdrew a slim army-green leather wallet. He flipped it open to the part where there was a plastic shield over a driver’s license and positioned it toward me.

  I didn’t touch it. I don’t know why. But I did move closer so I could read the name and see the picture. The picture was him, no doubt about it. And the name? Hunter Graves. It sounded fake, like the hero or the villain of a horror novel. He was a year younger than I.

  “I know, I know. It’s my real name,” he said. “If you need to see a passport—”

  I cut him off by flicking the wallet back toward him. “That’s okay, Hunter.”

  He picked up the wallet and put it back in his pocket. I wished I’d thought to verify the stats and, even more importantly, check his address. “Listen, there’s a lot to this story. I can give you the CliffsNotes, but I think you deserve to know more. I mean, I know you loved Jebediah Kleber.” He glanced my way, measuring my reaction to his use of Jeb’s full name and his knowledge of my feelings about him. I won’t say my feelings back then because I think, in my own way, I’d never stopped loving Jeb. That adolescent passion had frozen the night he vanished, almost as if it were preserved in ambergris. Long ago, I’d looked up the meaning of Jeb’s name, assuming it was of some hillbilly origin, but it was actually Hebrew and meant ‘beloved friend.’ Yes.