“He’s alive,” Miles said finally.
My knees nearly gave out.
“Where?”
“Inside. Paramedics are treating him.”
I covered my mouth with both hands.
“And Marissa?”
“She’s alive too.”
I looked toward my daughter-in-law sitting on the curb.
She was staring at me.
Her face was pale beneath the streaks of blood.
For one terrible second, I thought the blood was hers.
Then I realized she was shaking her head.
Not at me.
At Detective Miles.
“No,” she whispered.
Miles turned toward her.
“Marissa, we need to talk.”
“No.”
“Marissa—”
“I told you I didn’t know anything.”
My stomach tightened.
“Know what?”
Neither of them answered.
I stepped closer.
“What is going on?”
Miles lowered his voice.
“Your son called 911 twenty-one minutes ago.”
I looked at the house.
“Why?”
“He reported an intruder.”
My eyes moved toward Marissa.
“Was there someone inside?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“We don’t know.”
“But Daniel does.”
Miles hesitated.
“We believe he may.”
A coldness spread through me.
“What does that mean?”
Before he could answer, the front door opened.
A paramedic stepped outside.
“Detective?”
Miles walked over.
The paramedic whispered something into his ear.
Miles’ face hardened.
He turned back to me.
“Your son wants to see you.”
I didn’t wait.
I ran.
An officer tried to stop me, but Miles raised a hand.
“Let her through.”
Inside, the house looked nothing like the place I’d visited so many times.
A lamp lay shattered across the living-room floor.
One of the dining chairs was overturned.
There was a dark smear along the hallway wall.
Photographs had been knocked from their frames.
And on the floor beside the stairs was Daniel’s phone.
Its screen was cracked.
I stopped when I saw it.
“Mom?”
I looked up.
Daniel was sitting on the bottom stair.
A paramedic had wrapped his left arm in gauze.
There was blood on his forehead.
But he was alive.
“Daniel.”
I crossed the room and pulled him into my arms.
He winced.
“Careful, Mom.”
“Oh God.”
I held his face between my hands.
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing.”
“You don’t get to tell me it’s nothing after I drive up and find police surrounding your house.”
His eyes filled with tears.
“I know.”
I hugged him again.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I whispered:
“What happened?”
Daniel looked over my shoulder.
Toward the doorway.
Toward Detective Miles.
Then he looked back at me.
“He came here looking for you.”
My blood ran cold.
“Who?”
Daniel swallowed.
“The man at the gas station.”
I pulled away.
“What?”
“The man who warned you.”
Detective Miles stepped into the room.
“Daniel.”
But my son continued.
“He knew you were coming.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“Daniel, what did he want?”
My son looked down.
“He wanted something I had.”
“What?”
Daniel’s hands began to tremble.
“A photograph.”
I stared at him.
“What photograph?”
He looked at Miles.
The detective gave a slow nod.
Daniel reached into his pocket and pulled out a small plastic evidence bag.
Inside was an old photograph.
At first, I didn’t understand what I was looking at.
Then I saw the woman standing beside a young man.
My breath caught.
The woman was me.
But I was much younger.
Maybe thirty years old.
Beside me stood a man I’d never seen before.
I stared at the photograph.
“Who is that?”
Daniel’s voice was barely audible.
“That’s what we’ve been trying to find out.”
I shook my head.
“I’ve never seen him.”
Miles stepped closer.
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
He pointed to the young man.
“Look carefully.”
I did.
There was something familiar about his face.
Not enough to identify him.
But enough to make my skin crawl.
Then I noticed something in the background.
A house.
An old farmhouse.
And a red mailbox beside the driveway.
I knew that place.
My hand went to my mouth.
“No.”
Daniel looked at me.
“You recognize it?”
I couldn’t speak.
Miles did.
“Mrs. Whitaker?”
I whispered the words.
“That was my parents’ house.”
Silence filled the room.
I looked at the photograph again.
My younger self was smiling.
The stranger beside me wasn’t.
And suddenly I remembered something.
A night from thirty-one years ago.
A night I had spent decades trying to forget.
A night when my father had come home with blood on his shirt.
A night when my mother told me never to ask questions.
A night when a man disappeared.
I looked at Detective Miles.
“Who is he?”
Miles’ expression was grave.
“We think his name was Thomas Vale.”
The photograph slipped from my fingers.
Thomas Vale.
I knew that name.
Not because I’d met him.
Because I’d heard it once.
From my father.
And then I remembered the last thing my father had said about him.
“He’ll come back someday.”
I looked at Daniel.
“Why would he come back now?”