Foreseeable Harm — M.G. Lewis

So he had come to Crisfield to meet the guy on the phone. The anonymous guy who had told him that his mother, Leanne Bergeron, had been murdered twenty years earlier. Which had to be bullshit, because his foster mother would have told him.

But he had never asked Claire or Aunt Flo any questions. He hadn't wanted to remember her death. He still didn't. But he'd been in the house when she died, and the police would have talked to him, even if he was only ten?

He'd waited long enough for this guy. It was late, and the only sound was the buzz of the street lights as he walked to his car. He had a hand in his pocket to get his keys when an arm wrapped around his throat and tightened until he couldn't breathe. He clawed at the arm and tried to twist away, but he was being dragged to a white van like a fractious puppy. And then the guy persuaded him to stop struggling by smacking his head into the open door; twice.

A guy in a dead-white mask had thrown him into the van like a sack of fertilizer, and he had no idea why, no idea at all.