I never talked to my son about what happened on his sixteenth birthday or what his future would hold. On the day we buried my mother, Stephen brought Cedric her gift. She had ordered a truck for him. It had black paint with flecks of gold, which shimmered in the sun.
I was hesitant to allow him to have so much freedom, but Jameson promised he would be more present. He vowed to watch over our son when I couldn’t. Of course, I had no choice but to believe, so I gave in.
One evening, when Cedric hadn’t returned for dinner, Jameson and I sat silently eating our meal. My mind raced the entire time. He should have been home by now or told me he had made plans.
“Cedric has been acting strange, Jameson. Find out what he’s up to in town,” I demanded coldly.
“I know what our son has been doing,”
