My son and the money were missing.
Not knowing where to start, I burst into barely lit November drizzle and slammed but didn’t lock our front door. After all, what if Joezy had simply gone biking? Biking with a thousand bucks? Money meant for 9/11 victims’ families. And it was all — my boot heels clicked — my fault, my fault. I marched down our rain-glazed brick walk, my heels rat-tatting like shots. And I found myself picturing that strange house on the river. The house my husband and son had taken to calling, since September, our neighborhood’s Terrorist Cell.