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I push to my tiptoes and feel around on the very top shelf. My fingers graze against something, but I can’t reach it.
I need to hurry.
I spin on my heel, run out of the room, and grab a stool from the library.
My knees feel weak as I step onto the stool and find the object once again. It is a small, hard something.
With the object clutched in my hand, I jump off the stool and open my palm.
My heart stops.
It is a small gold pocketknife.
Engraved down the side is the name:
James Carrington
23
Tristan
Lightning flashes outside the window, followed by a long roll of thunder.
Lavi steps into the kitchen and startles when she sees me.
The room is dark, save for a dim yellow light above the stove. I haven’t turned on the overhead lights because I have been sitting in this exact spot, in this exact chair, for three hours waiting for my son to walk downstairs.
He stops. His eyes grow wide at my expression.
Tension crackles between us.
He knows I know.
Even through the darkness, I can see it all so clearly now. The sharp line of his jaw, the round lips, the crooked right incisor, the nose that’s a bit too large for his face.
My stomach folds in on itself.
I flick the pocketknife that’s been sitting in front of me for three hours to the center of the table.
James stares at it, his face going pale.
I can’t speak.
I want to. I’ve been sitting down here planning a million ways to start the conversation. A million ways to ask the million questions rolling around in my head.
But ... I. Can’t. Speak.
A solid minute passes as we stare at each other.
Thunder rumbles in the distance. The tension is so thick in the room that I feel like I could reach out and grab it.
“I ... I don’t know what to say.” Her—his—voice is now two octaves deeper.
Holyshit.
A flood of tears blur my vision. Before I can stop myself, I lurch out of the chair and scoop my son into my arms, squeezing him, lifting him off the floor.
My son that’s been missing for twenty years.
