I knew his face from the missing posters that were all over my town a few months back. It was unmistakable: the brown eyes, curly hair, and mole just under the left eye. There were billboards, even, and news segments on the boy, until someone else was murdered or kidnapped and he faded into the background of the next great story. But that was him, and he was with a much older man, sitting at an airport gate.

My eyes found them while I was walking to get coffee. They were a few gates over, the old man bobbing a newspaper on his knee and the boy staring straight ahead, eyes glassy. My heart began to pound as I passed them. What should I do? Alert airport security? This was a secure place, after all, right? It was better than finding them in the street. Here, there was no place to run.

I couldn’t find a security guard near, so I decided to tell one of the gate attendants. I needed to use the restroom first, though. The nerves were getting to me.

Standing at the urinal, I stared at the white tiles in front of me and took a deep breath. It would be okay - we were safe, and the boy would be safe, too. Hell, I might even be celebrated as a hero on the news. That would be interesting. The other people here, though … how had they not noticed? Maybe the news hadn’t been covered in their town. It was a few weeks ago, anyway.

“If you say anything at all, Monica will be dead by noon.”

The voice came from the urinal next to me and my thoughts stopped. I glanced over. It was the man who had been with the boy, staring straight ahead at the tiles, a stern look on his face. He knew my wife’s name … How he knew that, I would never know.

I nodded, zipped up my pants, washed my hands, made my way to my gate and sat down to drink my coffee.