Page 4 of Weight of Guilt

“We weren’t wondering.” Nora slid a plate across the island. “We always do this.”

“I know. I’m just saying.” Marlowe’s voice lost its edge, the sharpness draining out of her as if someone had pulled a plug. “It’s hard to believe it’s been ten years.”

Melancholy fell over the room.

“I keep doing the math.” Marlowe picked at the bacon she wasn’t really eating anymore. “Christian would be seventeen.”

“Or he is seventeen,” Nora said. “He could still be alive.”

“He might be.” Wren wasn’t sure if that brought her comfort or not. She didn’t want to think about him suffering. She preferred to imagine a good but slightly twisted family had adopted him and given him a decent life, despite everything.

Of course, they didn’t know for sure that he’d been kidnapped. There was no proof. No anything. No ransom notes. It was as if he’d just vanished off the earth.

Silence stretched again.

Wren cleared her throat, desperate to break the sadness. That was her—always the peacekeeper. It was her role as middle sister.

“Christian would be the perfect age to think you were mortifying.” Wren kept her voice light, even though the weight in her chest didn’t quite match the sound. “Seventeen-year-olds think their older sisters are the cringiest people alive.”

“I was never mortifying. I was delightful. I still am.” Marlowe shrugged. “He’d still follow me everywhere. I guarantee it.”

Wren couldn’t help but smile. But she knew the weight Marlowe carried. She knew her sister blamed herself for what had happened.

The picture was already on the table.

It was of Christian on the porch steps. His dark hair too long over his forehead. He had ears he hadn’t grown into and a scrape across one knee—because there was always a scrape across one knee. He also had a scattering of freckles the sun brought out every summer.

In this photo, he was squinting into the light and grinning anyway. He’d been up to something. He was always up to something.

His left arm rested on his knee, and the scar showed on his forearm.

Things had changed ten years ago, and now their childhood felt like someone else’s life. The only proof it had happened at all sat in a frame on the table.

Their family had been ripped apart. When Christian disappeared, the first few days had contained frantic hope and sickening dread. But over time, the stress of not knowing had worked its way into the very foundation of the family.

The Lovelesses, once the perfect picture of a happy Southern Gospel family, had been fractured. There were no more concerts at churches and revivals and fairs. The music had died that day.

Two years later, so had their parents’ seemingly unshakable marriage.

Their father had built a whole new life two hours from their home in Fog Lake, Tennessee. These days he wore a blue Best Buy polo and a name tag labeling him a “Sales Associate.” His old life—the one where he’d been a family man who ran sound checks and booked concert dates—was forgotten.

So were his daughters.

It was as if seeing them stirred up too many bad memories. So he stayed away instead.

Their mother had gone quiet in a different way. The trauma of what happened had broken her. Finally, after a lot of therapy, she’d gotten her own apartment in town. It was small and close enough to visit but far enough that she didn’t have to pass Christian’s bedroom door every morning.

Mom had realized she couldn’t stay in this house any longer—her mental health depended on it. However, she couldn’t stand to sell the place either. Instead, she’d handed it over to her daughters and asked them to take care of it.

Nora had decided to save money and move in. Wren had picked the in-law cabin behind the main house—a small, nine-hundred-square-foot space that was just enough room for her and Mason. Marlowe had wanted none of it. She’d gotten an inexpensive apartment in town within walking distance of her job. It was also close enough to her mom’s new place that Marlowe could check on her as needed.

Wren and her sisters ate a few minutes without talking. As she did, her thoughts went to the same place they always did on this day—to her brother.

His voice would have changed. Would he still laugh like Marlowe—too loud, always a half second early?

She didn’t know. That was the part that never got easier. She didn’t know anything about him after age seven.

Before the thought could go any further, Bo exploded into a fit of barking.