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Look at him.
Feel like screaming and throwing up and lying on the ground.
Slowly, he reaches into his pocket and takes out his phone.
His face is illuminated in the light from the screen, and when he glances up at me, I get a shock—
His eyes are black.
I couldn’t see that before.
He holds up his other hand, palm toward me, as if to saydon’t freak out.Then he takes a long step forward and turns the phone so I can see it.
On the screen is a picture of an old photo.
Three little boys stand on a porch, in front of a door. It’s the one from the farmhouse. I was just there. The boy in the middle looks like he’s spent all summer in the sun. He’s practically glowing with it. He’s smiling like his life depends on it, looking straight at the camera, and he has both arms slung over the other boys’ shoulders.
The one to his left is dark-haired. His mouth is in a thin line. He seems like he’s looking somewhere in the distance, past the camera.
The third one is very, very blond.
He’s not smiling, either. He’s looking down and a little away.
But there’s no question in my mind—from the angles of his face, even years removed, the boy in the photo is the man standing in front of me.
I look up into his eyes. I don’t know why. To see if he’s lying, maybe.
He looks back.
He’s, like,reallytall.
“There was a gravestone in the clearing,” I say in a rush. “Are yousureit’s not because there was a kid—”
His face does a funny thing. “What clearing?”
“The one right there.” I point off the path.
The man sighs. “I intend to have a very frank conversation with my brother. Maybe even tonight. He should have told me.”
“Should’ve told you what?”
Another blink. “None of the children died. Did you come here alone?”
I should probably deny it, but—
“No. I came here with my—with my fiancé. He was the one who saw the post about the kids.”
The corners of the man’s mouth turn down. “Where did he go?”
“Um.” My throat feels all hot and choked, and there are tears in my eyes, out of nowhere. “Some cops found us. And they beat him up and took him away. So, if you could just pretend I wasn’t here, I’m going to go get the car and, like, find him and bail him out or whatever I need to do to make sure my grandpapa doesn’t kill him.”
“Your—”
“Never mind,” I shout. “Forget that part. Forget—just don’t look at me, and I’ll leave, and this will never have happened.”
“Where is your car?”
“On the—” I wave in the vague direction of the farmhouse, hot tears slipping embarrassingly onto my cheeks. “Like a quarter mile down the road.”
