Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
Wren’s heart was still pounding as she stood there staring at the phone.
What if that had been Christian’s abductor? She couldn’t stop asking herself that question.
It was a possibility, right? If Christian had gotten away, what if his abductor was looking for him now? What if he was still in danger? If this person knew he’d come here?
Sweat sprinkled across her forehead.
Mason. She had to call Mason. She had to know her son was okay.
She told herself it was just because she missed seeing her son on weekends. And she did. His father had only gotten custody of him every other weekend two years ago.
Still, an irrational panic rose in her.
She supposed it was because seeing Christian had brought up so many bad memories. Christian was seven when he disappeared; Mason was seven now.
But she knew there was more to this than that. The fears that had haunted her every day since Christian’s abduction were taking hold again. If she let them, they would cripple her.
She found her sisters in the living room and dropped onto the couch. They all seemed to be in a daze.
“I don’t know what to feel.” Marlowe wrapped both hands around her mug. “Christian is home. He’s really home. After everything. Can you believe it?” Tears began pouring down her cheeks. “Maybe God really does answer prayers.”
Nora stood and paced to the window, her arms crossed. “I still think we need to be cautious. I mean, yes, he knows details other people don’t. But . . . I don’t know. This still seems surreal. I think we need to be careful. Especially if it turns out . . .”
“If it turns out what?” Marlowe’s voice sharpened fast, and her gaze filled with accusation. “You still don’t believe it’s him? He has the same scar on his arm that our brother did. Isn’t that proof enough?”
Nora’s jaw flexed. “I believe he knows things he wouldn’t know unless he’s really Christian. But belief isn’t evidence.”
“But—” Marlowe started.
“I’m not saying I don’t believe him,” Nora quickly explained. “I’m saying believing him and being careful aren’t the same thing, and I only know how to do one of those right now.”
Marlowe’s gaze remained stormy. “You sound like you’re building a case against him.”
“I sound like someone who doesn’t want this family to get hurt again.” Nora’s voice cracked on the last word. “I already watched it get destroyed once.”
“Girls, can we talk about what actually matters right now?” Wren interrupted.
“Whether he’s really Christian or not . .
. we’re not going to solve that today. We’re not going to solve that without a DNA test. But there’s someone out there who took him from us.
Who kept a kid for ten years and let him go this morning for reasons none of us understand yet. ”
“You think this guy is still around?” Alarm captured Nora’s voice. “That he might want Christian back? I mean, we don’t know anything. Did this guy let him go? Did Christian escape?”
Wren considered telling them about the phone call. But she didn’t want to stir up anything. It was probably nothing, and getting her sisters upset about nothing would be foolish. She’d wait to see if it happened again.
“I think if there’s ever a moment when the trail’s warm, it’s now.” Wren wrapped her arms over her chest. “And I think Christian might remember something that could help us find this guy. Whoever did this to him needs justice.”
Nobody said anything a moment.
“What about Mom and Dad?” Marlowe finally asked, all the earlier sharpness gone from her voice.
“We can’t tell them. Not yet.” Wren said. “Mom can’t handle this kind of shock without warning, and Dad—I don’t even know how you tell someone something like this over the phone. We need a plan before we tell either of them. We just can’t dump this news on them raw.”
No one argued.
Wren pressed her lips together, a thought trying to form on her lips.
Finally, she unleashed it. “Listen, I know this is going to sound strange. But I think I should talk to Nash.”
Both her sisters looked at her as if she’d spoken in a foreign language.
“Nash?” Marlowe arched an eyebrow. “The handsome, dog-hating neighbor?”
“He used to be a detective with the Tennessee Bureau of Investigations. Before—” Wren gestured vaguely at her knee, unsure how much detail she actually had a right to share. “I don’t know everything, but I know he was shot, and he’s recovering.”
“Is that right?” Nora frowned. “That’s serious.”
“It is,” Wren agreed.
“How about Luke?” Marlowe asked. “Luke is the Fog Lake Sheriff. Doesn’t he make more sense?”
“Luke would be obligated to report this,” Wren said. “If he reports Christian’s reappearance, what if it becomes national news? I don’t want that scrutiny yet.”
“Me neither,” Nora agreed.
“But Nash wouldn’t be obligated to report anything. At least, I don’t think he would be. He has experience investigating crimes. He would know what questions to ask. We need more information before we involve the sheriff.”
“Are you sure you can trust Nash?” Nora narrowed her eyes. “You’ve said yourself he’s barely civil most days.”
“No,” Wren admitted. “I’m not sure at all. But he’s the closest thing to an expert we have, and he isn’t emotionally wrecked by all of this. Right now, that makes him our best option.”
Nora studied her, then nodded once. “Okay. Fine. Go. It should just be you, not all of us. I want to be here when Christian wakes up. And I need to find some clean clothes for him.”
Wren nodded and stood. She hoped she wouldn’t regret this.
Nash had spent the time since he’d left his neighbors’ trying to read. And by trying, he meant he’d read the same page of a paperback four times. He couldn’t stop thinking about what might be going on next door—which was entirely none of his business.
Then he heard a footstep on his porch. Tank did also, and the dog jumped up.
Someone was here.
Nash put his paperback down, strode to the door, and peered out the peephole.
His neighbor stood on his porch, her hair coming loose from her ponytail.
Nash’s chest twisted in an entirely too complicated way at the sight of her.
He opened the door and pushed the feeling down before asking, “Everything okay?”
She extended her hand. “We haven’t formally met each other. I’m Wren.”
He loosened his muscles enough to return the handshake. “Nash. Nice to meet you.”
“I know we’ve had a rough start, but I was hoping for a do-over.”
“Do-overs are always good.” However, he couldn’t help but think she had an angle.
“Thank you.” She swallowed hard. “I know I’m being forward, but can I come in? I really need to talk to you about something.”
He stepped back to let her through, and Tank trotted over to investigate her hands for treats she didn’t have.
Nash caught the way she took in the cabin’s interior. He couldn’t quite place her expression. If he had to guess, it was something between surprise and reassessment.
“What can I say?” he muttered. “It’s a bachelor pad. Sorry about the mess.”
“There’s no mess.” She glanced around again—at the clean lines, the leather couch, the framed prints someone had clearly chosen with intention. “This is actually really nice.”
“Yeah, well.” He shut the door behind her, Tank already settling back into his spot by the fireplace. “I didn’t decorate. You can thank Susanna for that. I’m just a renter with decent luck.”
Susanna Newton managed the property for the Pruitts, and he could only assume Wren might know her.
His words earned him something closer to a real—but brief—smile. “I know they did a renovation on this a few months ago, hoping to attract someone to the property.”
“Looks like I came at just the right time.” He moved toward the kitchen. “Water or coffee?”
“Water’s fine.” She sank onto the edge of the couch, perched like she wasn’t sure if she was staying long.
Nash brought two glasses back and sat in the chair across from her. Then he waited for her to start.
She turned the glass in her hands for a minute before she finally spoke. “You’re a detective.”
Nash went still, though he wasn’t exactly surprised by her words. “Small town.”
“Salon talk.” She had the grace to look apologetic about it. “Listen, if I tell you something, are you obligated to report what I say?”
“Are you telling me about something illegal?”
Her gaze traveled back and forth. “No, I don’t think so. Not really.”
“I’m officially on medical leave. But if you tell me you just committed murder, I will have to report it.”
That got a nervous laugh out of her. “No, no murders.”
He tilted his head and kept his voice soft as he asked, “What’s going on, Wren?”
She rubbed her hands on her jeans. “My brother . . . he disappeared ten years ago. And . . . this is going to sound crazy.”
“I’m listening.”
“He just . . . showed up at our house today, and he can’t remember what happened to him.”
He sucked in a breath. “Wow. That’s a lot.”
“I know. I’m still processing everything and trying to figure out what to do. My sisters and I all are, but we feel like fish out of water.”
Nash turned that over for a second. “You know for sure he’s your brother?”
“I don’t know what to think.” She set the glass down. “He knows things—things that only family would know. And he has a scar on his arm in the same place my brother did.”
“Keep going.”
She shivered and rubbed her arms. “And . . . today is the exact anniversary of the day he disappeared. Something about the timing feels—” She shook her head. “I don’t know . . .”
“It feels suspicious?”
She frowned before nodding. “Yes, suspicious. And I have no idea what to do, and you have experience with this sort of thing. So I came here.”
Nash’s heart pounded in his ears. He wasn’t sure what Wren was asking of him.
But he wasn’t ready to say no yet either.