Prologue
Marcus
Twenty-one years ago
It’s warmer in the barn. Here in the corner, nestled in the hay, it’s far warmer than it is outside. More importantly, in this back corner, there’s not a place for the brutal wind to slip in. The tips of my fingers could just as well be pieces of ice tucked under my chin as I hunker down in the hay. It smells like dirt and pigs, but the warmth is more comforting than anything I’ve felt in days. By the looks of it, there hasn’t been a soul here in quite some time.
I spent the past three nights outside. Last night I dug into the ground to try to hide from the vicious wind that whipped through my tattered clothes. The hard earth was like a brick of clay and it took far too much energy to dig deep enough. It helped, but my throat is sore, my body is weak and I don’t know that I’ll ever get my hands warm again. There’s only one thing I’m certain of: I can’t keep going on like this. Something has to give.
Late fall in the northeast turns frigid sooner than most cities. My teacher used to refer to all the backwoods towns off the highway outside of New York City as Podunk. So that’s what I’ve been calling them all, the Podunk towns. I don’t even know where I am other than somewhere deep in the woods but to the left of the farms. It’s open fields out there, wide open with nowhere to hide.
This barn looks abandoned, a lonely decrepit place, and perfect for one night. Just one night to close my eyes and get the strength to keep moving. I don’t know how far I’ll run, but he told me his home was past the Podunk towns and that’s where mine used to be … if only I can find it.
When I close my eyes and ignore the smells, all I can hear is his voice. I try to forget the worst parts and only think about the stories he told me. He had so many good ones about his mother and how she was going to find us and save us. I remember how sure he was whenever he said we were safe. It was the only way I could sleep although I would have never admitted that to him. I was the one who was supposed to be protecting him, not the other way around. Safety surrounds me for a moment; a long enough moment that my eyes feel heavy and my body sags against the barn wood, begging me to give in to much-needed sleep.
Every muscle still burns from running. Even worse so because I ran up the mountain and into the thick, dense forest when I heard the cars coming. I won’t let them get me too. I’ll never be caught again. Each little cut stings and seems to sear the memories into my skin with every small movement, but I focus on the stories … the good ones he told. The ones that almost made us smile, the ones that made us forget where we were.
Sleep nearly takes me … almost there.
Until a sudden creak forces my tired eyes wide open and my heart races, listening to a man pry open the doors of the barn.
Delilah
My father always told me to trust my gut. He also said when someone shows you who they are, believe them. It’s always made sense to me, as has most of my father’s wisdom, and from the day he gave me that piece of advice until now, I’ve lived by that motto.
Right now, though, as I stare into Cody’s eyes, listening to him reassure me that I know everything he does about the cold cases and about Marcus, I doubt myself. I thought I knew him. I thought wrong. The man I know Cody Walsh to be is nowhere around and a stranger stares back at me.
I find myself in his home feeling anything but secure. He’s lying to me. It’s the only thing I’m certain of and I can’t even begin to process how much it hurts. Of everyone I’ve worked with to solve these cases, I trusted him the most. I’ve leaned on him for years and right now, I question everything.
Men have secrets, my mother used to whisper. Back then I thought she was the crazy one. Now I’m wondering if I inherited that trait as well.
“I’m telling you,” Cody says, starting up again, bringing my gaze back to his. “You’re worked up and I don’t blame you, but there’s nothing I know that you don’t.” His voice is calm and comforting, but his eyes are flat and devoid of commitment. It’s like they want me to know he doesn’t mean a damn word he’s saying.
My tired body begs me to give in to Cody, to just believe him and shake off the horrible gut-wrenching feelings that seep from the marrow of my bones. Every time I close my eyes, though, I see the picture of the boy. The statements. The death certificate.
“I don’t think you believe me,” Cody says when I don’t answer him. The sizzle of the thick slice of ham he places in the frying pan brings me back to the present. It’s pitch black outside, but still the streetlights filter in through the curtains in Cody’s dining room.
With my arms crossed, I lean my hip against the counter and I have to clear my tight throat before telling him again, “It’s just that I feel like there’s more to it.” Shame washes over me. I should tell him I went through his things. I should confess that much and maybe he’d confess too.
“Because the cases haven’t been solved. Every case I’ve ever had that went cold … I’ve felt like that,” he says, speaking to the stove instead of me, flipping the ham and then scooping potatoes from the back pan onto the two simple white plates beside the stove.
Even with my sanity stretched far too thin, somewhere in the back of my exhausted mind I’m fully aware that I should be grateful for Cody and that, as far as I know, he doesn’t have any reason at all to lie to me. I can’t shake this feeling, though. My gut instinct is that he’s lying … it also whispers that I should keep what I know hidden from him just the same. One old case file I opened while I was snooping has shifted everything.
He continues, “Because there is more to it. To all of those cases we didn’t close. You and I both know that.” He adds under his breath, so low I almost don’t hear, “There’s more to all those cases.”
With a deep thump in my chest that ricochets a pain that can’t possibly compare to his, a flash of the photo I found comes to mind. The black and white photo of Cody and his brother standing with an older man, maybe their uncle since they resembled him closely. The image is followed with more thoughts of the case that was never fully closed. At least not for him.
The silverware clinks against the porcelain as he places a plate in front of me, not missing a beat of his explanation. “Of course you feel like there’s more. There is more; I just don’t know that we’ll ever know the truth.”
My gaze flies to his, but he isn’t looking at me. He’s focused on spearing the ham and eating, like I should do. Lord knows I’ve had more to drink than I needed tonight.
With every swallow, questions beg to be spoken.
I barely taste the meal, although the heavy scent of butter and pork makes me believe it should be delicious.
“We may never know the truth, but we did everything we could.” Cody’s statement carries a note of finality. As if it’s the end of the conversation.
A sadness washes over me. I’m sure that’s what he thinks about his brother’s case and it tears me up inside to imagine him as a young boy, being handed paperwork and most likely, told little lies to lessen the blow of what happened to his younger brother.