The Missing Child

When my phone buzzed, I was cleaning Andy's baby walker from his early days. The screen lit up, and a video from an unknown number began playing automatically. There was no sound, only the image of that small, thin child, a rough hand covering his mouth and nose. Leo Jones beside me let out a strangled sob, as if his throat was being crushed. "Andy! It's Andy!" He lunged forward to grab the phone, his fingertips trembling. He replayed the video over and over; each pause felt like a dull knife slicing into his flesh. "Call the police! Viola! Call the police right now!" He shook my shoulders, his bloodshot eyes almost spilling tears. The shaking left my stomach empty, and memories from five years ago suddenly flooded in, suffocating me. Five years ago, Andy was three years old, and we were buying ice cream on the Pedestrian Street. A man in a black jacket rode up on a motorcycle and snatched Andy away in one swift move. I chased after him for two blocks, fell to the ground, my knees scraped and bleeding badly. I called out Andy's name until my throat was hoarse and I couldn't make a sound, but I never saw him again. From that day on, my life was consumed by one thought: 'Find Andy.' We sold our city house and used all the money to print two million missing person posters. At first, Leo Jones was with me, driving through every neighboring city and county searching. He grew more and more exhausted, the light in his eyes fading little by little. One deep night a year ago, he held me and said, "Viola, let's give up." "Shall we try for another child?" His voice was filled with nothing but fatigue. I pushed him away with such force that he staggered. Andy is still alive—I can feel it. How could I give up on him to have another child? From that day on, we slept in separate rooms. This home had become nothing but an empty shell; even the air felt cold. A week ago, that unknown number sent a message for the first time. "Your son is in my hands. Prepare one million." He also sent a photo; the child in it looked about eight years old, with brows and eyes that resembled Andy exactly. I stared at the photo all night, my fingers tracing over the screen, as if I could actually touch Andy's face. Leo Jones and I borrowed money from everywhere, begging all our relatives and friends, and finally managed to raise one million. We were just waiting for the kidnappers to name the meeting place so I could bring Andy back. But yesterday, the kidnappers suddenly changed their minds. "Let me see your sincerity first. Wait for my message."That was the only message he sent, and then he never replied again. Until today, when this hostage video was sent to us. Leo Jones collapsed to the ground, like a wounded wild beast, quietly whimpering. I stared at the child on the screen, lifeless, but the tears just wouldn't fall. He's not Andy. A voice inside me kept saying, this isn't my Andy. Leo Jones was still crying. I picked up my phone and opened the delivery app. The delivery address was the secluded neighborhood the kidnappers sent yesterday. I ordered a seafood platter worth over five hundred, with Australian lobster, abalone, and scallops—Andy's favorite. In the notes section, I slowly typed: "Thank you, please eat it while it's warm." Leo Jones suddenly looked up, his entire body frozen as he saw what was on my phone screen. "What are you doing?" His voice trembled, as if he couldn't believe it. "Viola Lincoln!" He rushed over, snatched the phone from me, and threw it onto the sofa. "That's the person who tried to kill Andy! You ordered takeout from him? Are you crazy?" When his palm came slapping toward me, I didn't dodge. A burning pain spread across my cheek, and my ears buzzed. I covered my face and watched the phone screen light up—it was a text from the kidnapper. Only some words: "Thank you." I smiled, unable to stop the corners of my mouth from lifting. Leo Jones looked at my smile, his eyes full of fear.