Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
PRESENT DAY
Wren Loveless didn’t knock. She never did, not at her sister’s house.
Instead, she let herself in, her dog behind her.
“Morning,” Nora called from the kitchen.
She didn’t turn from the stove. She cracked eggs into a pan, the kitchen already thick with the smell of bacon grease and coffee.
“Morning,” Wren returned as she took a seat at the breakfast bar.
The kitchen looked exactly as it had when she was growing up. It had the same scarred butcher block counter, the same window over the sink that fogged over every winter no matter how high they ran the heat, and the same tiled backsplash with a country blue flower pattern.
Bo, the party-colored labradoodle she’d been “gifted” by a coworker at the salon who had to move overseas, trotted in behind her and folded himself under the table. She’d tried leaving him at the cabin, but he’d beaten her out the door, ignoring her every command.
As per usual.
Tightness pulled across her chest as she anticipated how today would go. Every year this date brought the same sensations.
“You think Marlowe will be here?” Wren asked.
Marlowe had gotten the good version of everything. Same dark hair as Wren, but hers went red in the sun instead of dull. Same height, more or less. People had been telling them their whole lives that they had their mother’s face, and it was true. The features just fit Marlowe better.
“We’ll see,” Nora said. “She hasn’t missed a year yet.”
Wren let her gaze wander a moment. She knew this house like the back of her hand.
Yet something about being in the house she grew up in remained bittersweet.
Nothing in it had moved. They still had the same couch, still angled toward the same window. Her mother’s hymnals were still stacked on the piano bench in the same order. Even the height marks on the pantry doorframe were still there—including the one that said Christian, 7.
Her gaze stopped on the wall in the living room.
The cover of an album none of them had listened to in years hung there.
Homecoming, the title read in gold script. Three sisters with bright blue eyes and matching dresses smiled on the cover.
The day it released was forever etched into her memory.
Ten years ago today.
Nora slid a plate with eggs, bacon, and toast across the island to Wren. “I was up early so I got started on breakfast before you came. Had an insulin scare with one of my patients overnight. Nothing too serious, but the family panicked and called me instead of the ER.”
Her sister was a home health nurse who occasionally picked up jobs at the hospital. She was good at her job. Nora had always been the most nurturing and caring of the three sisters.
Wren turned her coffee mug in slow circles, quickly calculating how many hours of sleep her sister had actually gotten. Not enough. “You could say no to the overnight calls sometimes.”
“I could.” Nora shrugged.
But Wren knew she wouldn’t. She worried about her sister sometimes. Nora worked too hard and always seemed to have the weight of the world on her shoulders. But she’d always been that way, and Wren wasn’t sure that would ever change.
An engine cut through the quiet outside, the sound throatier than that of a car. Bo lifted his head, recognizing the noise.
A minute later, Marlowe let herself in, her leather jacket still zipped and her sunglasses shoved up into her mass of long, dark hair she hadn’t bothered brushing. She dropped her keys on the counter then a motorcycle helmet beside them.
Marlowe reached past Wren for a piece of bacon. Bo’s head immediately appeared beside her elbow.
“Don’t even think about it, goblin,” Nora warned.
Bo thought about it. He sat at attention, a hopeful look in his eyes.
“I don’t blame you.” Marlowe gave Bo a teasing look. “I’d give you a piece if it was my choice.”
Wren let Marlowe take another bite before playfully raising her eyebrows. “Don’t you look like a double shift and bad decisions.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. And for the record, Suzy called out sick, so I did actually work a double.”
Marlowe was a waitress at the diner in town. She had dreams of starting her own clothing boutique, but those plans had been put on hold for now. First, she needed to take some business classes and save some money.
Marlowe took another bite of bacon before continuing, “Some tourist guy tried to tip me in Canadian coins last night, like I wouldn’t notice.”
Uh oh. Someone had crossed Marlowe. That was the last thing people should do. Her younger sister was feisty, to say the least.
“Did you say something to this aforementioned tourist about his tip?” Wren asked.
“I told him the foreign currency was adorable, and I’d be keeping the coins as a souvenir.” Marlowe finally sat down beside Wren. “Then I told him what a real tip looked like. He found actual American money fast enough after that.”
Wren smiled.
“I wasn’t going to miss this, in case you two were wondering,” Marlowe announced. “I set an alarm.”
“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.
Wren stood, instantly tensing. “That’s not his annoying, I-want-attention bark. That’s how he barks when he sees or hears something.”
She and her sisters crossed the living room together and pushed through the front door.
Bo darted out ahead of them.
The morning air hit Wren—cool and damp—and she pulled her flannel shirt closer around her. September was like that here in the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee.
The yard had already started turning. Not the trees yet, but the grass had gone dull at the edges, and the dogwood by the porch steps had dropped enough leaves that somebody would need to rake by the weekend. Nobody would.
The main house sat wide and white behind her, the porch wrapped all the way around. Her cabin sat behind it and off to the left, close enough that she could hear the screen door slam from her kitchen.
Past both houses, at the back of the property, the old barn leaned into the morning. They’d never used it for anything but storing what nobody wanted to throw away. The roof had started to dip on the north end. Another winter or two and it would make the decision for them.
The land here ran flat, and the mountains stood up on every side like walls somebody built a long time ago.
Her gaze followed Bo. The dog had stopped and was barking into the trees.
She froze when she saw something out of place in the distance.
A man—or was he a boy?—lingered in the trees edging the west of their property, probably twenty-five yards from the house. He was half-swallowed by shadows.
Wren stared. Who was he? A lost hiker?
Or . . . was he someone more sinister?
Her thoughts snapped to her seven-year-old son, Mason.
Was he okay?
Of course, he was okay, she chided herself, forcing her shoulders to relax. He was at his father’s house. He should be fine.
This man-boy in the woods couldn’t hurt him.
She blew out a breath. Why did she always jump to worst-case scenarios? Actually, she knew why. It was a trauma response.
Bo stopped probably six feet away from the man-child and kept barking at the stranger.
“Who is that?” Marlowe muttered as she squeezed in beside her.
“I have no idea,” Nora said. “A lost hiker?”
“That’s what I was thinking.” Wren wrapped her arms more tightly across her chest, not liking the bad feeling in her gut. “But if it’s a lost hiker, why is he staring at us?”
No one responded.
She stared back. This wasn’t someone who was lost and needed help, or someone just passing through.
It was almost like he was there . . . for them.
He took a step out of the woods. The man-boy was thin—too thin—and he wore ratty jeans and a stained, oversized T-shirt. His hair looked unkempt and his face dirty.
It almost appeared as if he’d been living out in those woods for a long time. In fact, there was something almost feral about him.
Bo went quiet, then started barking again. He circled the stranger in stiff, uncertain loops. His tail hung low against his legs, his nose worked the air, and his ears were back.
“We can’t just stare at him,” Marlowe said. “What do we do?”
“We need to find out who he is,” Wren said, unable to tear her gaze away from the man. “What he wants.”
“Can I help you?” Nora’s voice sounded even and professional, like the tone she might use when dealing with one of her patients.
The stranger studied the three of them, still not speaking.
“Who are you?” Nora pressed.
He continued to stare at them.
Just when Wren was certain he wouldn’t answer, he shifted.
“It’s me,” he finally said, his voice strained and cracking. “Christian. I . . . I found you.”