Her dad pushed the man’s hair out of his face, and Rowan knew instantly it was her brother.
He looks like Dad.
“Malcolm?” she choked out as familiar brown eyes met hers. He immediately dropped his gaze, his head down. “Look at me!”
Evan touched her arm. “What’s going on?”
Rowan couldn’t look away from her brother. His hair was long and greasy, half falling out of a low ponytail. He wore battered jeans and tennis shoes that looked decades old. He was impossibly thin, his clothes hanging on him. Tears ran down his face as he lifted his head and made eye contact again.
It’s him.
It made no sense. Jerry Chiavo had confessed to Malcolm’s death.
Her dad hugged him. “Get the fucking cuffs off of him! It’s my son!”
“It’s Malcolm,” she whispered to Evan. “He’s alive.”
“Are you sure it’s him?” Evan frowned.
“I’m positive!” Rowan watched, drinking in the sight of her ecstatic parents.
No one expected this day.
Her father was crying now, and her mother hugged him from behind. The deputies holding Malcolm looked to Evan for guidance.
The twins hung back, confusion on their faces. “It can’t be,” said Iris, gripping Ivy’s hand.
“Uncuff him?” Evan asked Rowan. “He ran away from us and won’t answer our questions.”
“Clearly he’s scared of something,” Rowan said, her gaze locked on her brother. He still hadn’t said anything and struggled to hold eye contact with either parent for more than a second.
“Then I’ll leave them on until we have some answers. But I’ll link another pair to make it more comfortable.”
“He’s too thin to have much strength,” argued Rowan.
“Trust me when I say you should never judge a suspect’s strength by how they look.” He asked an officer for another set of cuffs, then went behind Malcolm to remove a cuff from one wrist, replace it with the new one, and then link the old and new together. “Do you want to talk with him inside?” Evan asked Rowan’s parents. Neighbors were coming out of their homes to stare.
“Yes!” said her mother. “Please bring him in.”
Rowan was suddenly struck dumb, unable to take her gaze from her brother.
Malcolm is home.
41
I’m overwhelmed and exhausted. Feeling paralyzed.
There are too many faces, too many eyes, and too many people speaking. I struggle to look people in the eye, but it’s too hard. Eye contact was considered confrontational and rarely allowed. Every time I realize I’m staring at my shoes, I force myself to look up.
And get overwhelmed again.
I walked inside my parents’ home with my hands cuffed behind me, and the setting was unfamiliar. The house was the same on the outside, although it seemed smaller than I remembered. Inside I stopped before entering the huge family room with all the tall windows, stunned because I didn’t remember it being this big. Then I realized the kitchen used to be separated from the big room by a wall, but now everything is in one giant space.
I didn’t know where to sit. Everything was too nice. I wanted to sit on the floor, but the deputy guided me to the couch. I sat carefully on the edge, terrified I’d get it dirty, and instinctively waiting for someone to yell at me to get down.
My parents sit on either side of me as a deputy watches us from the kitchen. He can relax; I’m not going anywhere, but I can see in his face it’s useless to tell him that. My parents keep touching me. A hand on my arm. A touch to my face. A hug. I want to tell them to stop, but I also want them to never stop. No one has physically touched me in years . . . decades.
It feels wrong, yet I also crave it.
The twins pace the room, stealing glances at me and tapping on their phones. The boy, West, sits in an easy chair in the corner, staring at me. Squeezed into the chair with him is a black dog. I know it’s Rowan’s dog, Thor. I memorized his face and name from the newspaper.
Rowan crosses the room and sits in a big soft chair directly in front of me. She has a subtle limp, and I remember how badly her leg was broken. Is that why she limps? She has cried and smiled and laughed since seeing me. Sometimes all at one time. My parents have done the same.
I’m uncomfortable with the emotions zinging through the room. I feel like a giant spotlight is on me, and I want to hide in the cool, welcoming dark.
My gaze goes to the fireplace, and from deep inside my memories, I feel a little thrill as I recognize it. It still stretches to the high ceiling, covered in smooth, large, irregular rocks that I remember tracing with my hands, searching for the most unusual one. The jagged wood mantel is different, but I can’t remember what it looked like before.