“Marlene?”
The woman nodded.
“She’s usually the one who stays here with Toby anyway. Kids his age can’t attend the overnight program without a parent or an approved guardian on-site.”
Voicemail.
My stomach dropped. All those weekends I thought Greg had been camping with our son, his mother had been the one staying behind.
I gripped the counter.
“I’m his mother.”
I stumbled back to the car and dialed Marlene. Straight to voicemail.
I tried again. Voicemail.
“Where is our son?”
“Marlene, it’s Nora. Please, please call me back. Where is Toby?”
I tried Greg. The line rang once and cut out.
Jealousy was one thing. My son was somewhere I didn’t know.
****
I drove home too fast, thinking of what I’d grab: Toby’s inhaler. His blanket. My passport.
“He’s with my mom.”
I burst through the front door and stopped cold.
Greg was standing in the entryway. Coat still on. Keys in his hand.
