A second passes and then another before the realization sinks in that I’d rather go to him than have him come here. I don’t know how I’m able to move my horrified limbs, but I do, bending down to read the slip of paper with the simple command on it.

Come over.

With a deep breath in I slip on my flats, once again staring at my mother’s sleeping form. Even in her rest, there’s a crease etched in the center of her forehead and her brow is pinched. Even in her sleep, she’s plagued by what’s happened. There’s no escape from it.

As I creep out of the room, all I can think is that she really did it. This is happening and I’m caught in the middle of it all.

Hesitation overwhelms me as I stand on the outdoor walkway in front of the room next door. The small peephole is a black pupil that stares back at me as the chill of the fall night air wraps itself around my shoulders.

With the back of my hand, I barely form a fist and rap: Knock, knock. Knock knock knock … I don’t have to finish. On the last knock, and with an eerie creak, the door opens. Not enough for me to go through, but enough to see the bathroom light is on inside. No other light, just the one and it barely bathes the room in the dim yellow glow.

“Hello?” I call out, my voice raspy and not at all sounding like myself. Clearing my throat, I gently push the door open wider. My heart races until I hear his voice.

“Come in. I’ve been waiting.”

Thump, thump, it all slows when I hear how calm and expectant he is. The deep baritone comes from the far left of the room. His room’s the same as mine, only mirrored. So his bed touches the wall where mine is placed. It’s only inches from where my mother sleeps.

That knowledge sends goosebumps down my back.

“Didn’t mean to keep you,” I tell him although I’m unsure where the response comes from. All of it is surreal and I find myself praying to just wake up.

“You were busy with your mother, that’s understandable.”

Thump, thump. The tips of my fingers go numb as I make my way to the chair seated in front of a simple desk. The other would be more comfortable, but it’s closer to him.

At the thought, my gaze lifts and I see more of him than I did before. For a moment, only a split second, I think he’s Cody, not Marcus.

With his dirty blond hair, just a bit too long to be Cody Walsh, and the width of his shoulders, he looks so much like him.

My head spins and I lean forward in the chair, unable to hide my reaction. Maybe I just wish Cody were here. I wish it were him sitting there.

“I look like him, don’t I?” he asks and there’s a pain present in his tone. Undoubtedly so.