Page 151 of Weight of Guilt

“They did.”

“That’s good too.”

Wren watched her brother and couldn’t think of one thing to say that wouldn’t make it worse.

He pushed himself up off the step and turned toward the main house. Then he stopped. “Nobody looked for me that long.”

“That’s not true. We didn’t stop looking.” Her heart lodged in her throat. “Christian, you’ve got to know that⁠—”

“I’m not mad.” He said the words plainly, as if he’d worked it out a while ago somewhere and was only reporting what he’d landed on. “You couldn’t have kept it going forever. Nobody can. I just think about it sometimes.”

He took a step away.

“Christian,” Wren called.

He stopped and half turned.

She licked her lips, uncertain what she needed to say. Finally, she settled on, “I’m glad you’re home.”

He held her gaze a moment longer than the words needed. “Me too.”

Then he crossed the yard and went up the back steps, and the kitchen light went out behind him.

Wren stayed where she was until she couldn’t hear him anymore. Behind her, the cabin door sat open on its crack of light, and Mason hadn’t made a sound.

She climbed back up to the porch, where Nash was waiting.

Wren sank onto one of the porch steps, Bo beside her. Nash sat on her other side, and Tank bookended all of them.

For once, the two dogs weren’t at odds.

Several minutes passed, and neither Wren nor Nash spoke.

Moonlight washed across the yard and silvered the roof of the main house. Somewhere in the trees, the cicadas sang. Wren listened to them and tried to remember what normal sounded like.

“Did you hear all of that?” she asked Nash softly.

“Some.” Nash rubbed his thumb along the edge of the step. “Enough.”

Wren waited. He didn’t offer anything else, and after a moment she understood he was letting her decide whether she wanted to hear more.

“Say it,” she said.

“He never asked how Mason was.”

“I noticed.”

“He asked how long, and whether he was alone, and whether the light was on.” Nash kept his eyes on the yard. “Those are the questions of somebody comparing notes.”

Wren pulled her knees up. She’d gotten there on her own, and she’d been hoping Nash would tell her she was wrong.

“That’s not an accusation,” Nash said. “A boy who lived through an experience like that would ask exactly those questions.”

“But so would somebody who’d heard about it from a boy who did.”

Nash didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

Wren looked at the dark shape of the main house and didn’t say the rest of what she was thinking. Besides, she had other things to talk about.