Chapter 17
Seventeen
Around midnight, I give up trying to sleep and go down to the kitchen. I put a kettle of water on the stove and light the
burner, then grab a chamomile tea bag.
I can’t stop thinking about Miles’s investigation. I don’t want to be a part of it, but what if he’s right? If Valencia and
Marcus are the only two without alibis, could they really have been responsible? Maybe Marcus got home and was hungover like
Valencia, only he didn’t get a nap. With Easton gone, Nate was bored and bothering his dad. Something happened and he snapped
and pushed his son away.
It could have been an accident. Maybe Nate hit his head. Then Marcus hid the body. Or Valencia woke up and helped him. She might be trying to keep me here to help cover their tracks and replace the son she lost. Meanwhile Marcus is scared
this will invite more scrutiny when the cops find out I’m not really Nate.
Add that to the fact that someone was here, in the house, earlier today. And it was most likely a threat. Or a warning. That
they know I’m not Nate, and none of these alarms or locks are enough to keep me safe. And if I want to live, I should run
now, while I still can.
I grab a mug from the cabinet and turn toward the kitchen island. Easton is standing in the doorway. I utter a startled cry and almost drop the mug in my hands. I didn’t even hear him come in. The alarm was on when I went up to bed. He must have turned it off from his phone.
“You’re still up?” he asks.
I nod. “I couldn’t sleep.”
He pulls out a chair from the island and plops down on it. “What did you do tonight?” he asks.
“Went over to Miles’s house.” And, you know, worried for hours about a killer watching me.
“He ask you to be on his podcast?” He says podcast like it’s a dirty word, and when I look over at him, I can see he’s sneering.
“He did. I told him I’d think about it.”
“Don’t bother. No one listens to it. He’s trying to use you—he asked us all to do it multiple times. Nerd couldn’t take a
hint.”
“I probably won’t,” I say. For a few moments Easton doesn’t say anything else, but he looks as though he’s still not sure
he believes me. Then, out of nowhere, he speaks again.
“I want to say sorry,” he says.
“You don’t—”
“I do. I have to apologize for giving up on you.” He looks over at me, his eyes glassy.
The look on his face makes my heart seize.
Like someone plunged their fist into my chest and squeezed the first soft, fragile thing they could find.
If he were on a stage looking like this, even the people in the very back row would be able to see how upset he is.
“I need to apologize for that day, too. Because we got in that stupid fucking argument when we were playing out there, and you said you were going to tell Dad. I went to JT’s because I was scared he’d be pissed at me. ”
He looks so damn guilty, my heart hurts for him. He was just a kid, it’s not fair for him to take on all that responsibility.
“Easton, stop, it’s not your fault.”
“It is, though! I was supposed to be watching you but then we started arguing about I don’t even remember what, and you ran off.
I should have gone after you—but you remember how Dad was back then.”
How he was? I don’t, obviously, but Easton did say he was scared Marcus would be pissed off at him. And Miles mentioned the
yelling at peewee soccer. Still, maybe Easton’s dad is strict, but he doesn’t seem abusive. At least not based on the way
people act around him. Valencia was able to stand up to him, and he and Easton seem respectful and caring toward each other.
And Easton said, Remember how Dad was back then. Maybe Marcus turned over a new leaf once he lost a son. Or got better at hiding his temper.
“I didn’t want him to freak out at me,” Easton continues. “I remember that much. Maybe I punched you or tripped you or was
picking on you, I don’t know. But when I finally did get the courage to go home, I realized you weren’t there. And you never
told Dad about whatever we were fighting about.”
Easton looks down at his hands again. His shoulders are slumped and he keeps avoiding my gaze, at though he’s embarrassed
or scared to even look at me.
“If it makes you feel any better,” I say, “I don’t remember any of that either.”
I’m nervous he won’t realize I’m joking, but he laughs. In fact, he laughs so hard he has to wipe a tear from his eye. Whatever
tension is between us breaks and he finally looks at me.
“Yeah, well, I have more to apologize for than that day.” He grows serious again. “I . . . gave up on you, Nate. At first
it didn’t make sense that you would disappear. I assumed you’d come home eventually, hungry for dinner. Then, when the cops
were looking for you, I thought for sure they’d find you soon. And when they didn’t, after a year or so, I . . .”
His voice breaks and he can’t look at me again.
Shit. I really did mess up. Easton thought Nate was dead and had moved on. And now I’m here, and it may have disturbed his
grieving process.
“I knew you were dead,” he says. “After that much time I couldn’t find a logical way that you could still be alive. I told
myself you were dead, but Mom didn’t believe that, so I kept my mouth shut about you around her. And of course she was acting . . .”
He trails off, shaking his head. “We’re not supposed to say ‘crazy,’ so I guess I’ll say weird.”
“Weird how?”
“Mental breakdown weird. Can’t blame her—and I don’t—” He adds it quickly, as if she might be listening and he doesn’t want
her to punish him. “It was scary. I mean, the whole incident was, but afterward she was scary.”
“Scary and weird are all you’re giving me. I’m going to need a bit more.” Because I want to know how scary things got for him.
“Nah, it’s stupid. I was a kid and you disappearing was the first time I realized that bad things could actually happen to
us. So I was scared of Mom and Dad and what they might do. But again, I was just a stupid kid.”
My heartbeat quickens. Even Easton—Marcus and Valencia’s real son—was scared of them. Why? I need to know. But I don’t want to push him or look like I’m desperately digging for information.
I try to act nonchalant and shrug.
“I mean, I’m here, aren’t I? So whatever you were thinking wasn’t real. Doesn’t mean you were stupid; you were scared.”
He doesn’t say anything, and I’m worried I missed my shot. I should have pushed harder to figure out why he was worried, and
about what. But then he looks up at me.
“She—Mom—she . . .” He can’t say it. Whatever it is that scared him so much as a kid, he can’t even say it now. I should tell
him it’s okay, that he doesn’t have to tell me. But I need to know. Because I need to know who in this house I can trust.
So I stare back at Easton, trying to telepathically tell him it’s okay and he can tell me. And maybe it works, because he
sighs and continues.
“She would say stuff—I don’t even remember exactly what, but it was dark. Like if she ever found out you were really dead,
she’d want to be dead, too. For all of us to be dead.”
I swallow hard. Holy shit, that’s dark. Poor Easton. For him to hear that as a kid must have been awful.
Easton waves a hand. “It’s fine, though. I think Dad convinced her to go to therapy or something, and things got better.”
“What about Dad?”
Easton shrugs. “I don’t know. He never wanted to talk about any of it. Or maybe he wrote you off the quickest. As soon as
you disappeared, he feared the worst.” There’s a long moment of silence before he looks at me again. “But I’m sorry I gave
up on you. I shouldn’t have.”
That makes my heart swell. I know it can’t possibly always be like this, but little moments like these must be what makes
having a sibling wonderful. Even if I am lying to Easton, maybe I can put this in a box and save it—save how it feels to have
someone on my side.
“Stop feeling guilty,” I say. “None of this is your fault, and you definitely don’t need to feel bad for thinking I was dead.
I know how lucky I am. Most kids who disappear—especially for as long as I did—they don’t get this happy ending. So give yourself
a break.”
He stares at me and his face changes. It’s like he’s an animal who has discovered something intriguing, stopping short of
tilting his head like an inquisitive dog trying to hear something better.
“‘Happy ending’ is a strange way to say you got a second chance at a new life,” he finally says.
He’s right. I really shouldn’t have said that. In all likelihood, despite the missing posters and age-progressed pictures,
Nate is dead. I believe that even more after today. Which means there is no happy ending for this family.
“What is it?” Easton asks.
“I guess, yeah, it’s not an ending so much as a continuation.”
He nods. “A continuation. And I’ll always be the guy whose brother was abducted . . . or murdered by his parents. You’ll always be the kid who was abducted.”
“Murdered by his parents?” I act like it surprises me, but I’m also curious to know what he thinks about those rumors.
“Yeah, I’ve seen what people say online about us. I knew it wasn’t true, but at least you can say you got to come back ten
years later, right?” He grins again. “Back from the dead.”
“You make it sound way cooler than it is.”
There’s a creak from the hallway outside the kitchen, followed by footsteps. Before he even enters the kitchen, I know it’s
Marcus because of the loud way he walks. He stops short in the doorway, looking at both of us.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say, pointing to the kettle.
Easton points to himself. “Adult on break from school.”
Marcus snorts and shakes his head, walking past us and grabbing a glass from the cabinet. “You can both stay up as late as
you want. Your mother’s the one who will make sure you’re still out of bed by seven a.m.” He fills the glass with water and
says good night to us, calling back over his shoulder, “Don’t forget to turn off the lights.”
Once he’s halfway up the stairs, Easton pushes himself up from the chair, then stops in the doorway. “Glad to have you back
from the dead, little brother.” He knocks against the wall and gives me a grin before leaving.
Behind me, the kettle starts to whistle. After I make my tea, I turn off all the lights—like Marcus oh so politely asked—and
head up to my room.
I don’t know what time it is when my alarm goes off, but it’s dark outside. I reach over for the phone to silence it, still not understanding how it could be so loud.
But then Valencia screams my and Easton’s names.
It’s not my phone that’s letting out that shrill sound.
It’s the burglar alarm. Whoever broke in earlier is back.