The red barn always looked beat down to me back then and the years haven’t been kind to it now.

I wonder what Marcus knows. There’s no such thing as coincidence when it comes to him. There’s a reason he brought me back here to the place I know my father used to hide away in.

When my mother and he were fighting, he’d always take off to help Mr. Dave fix up the old machines. There’s more than a time or two I can recall Mom hunched over the sink, gripping the counter and pretending not to cry when I stepped into the kitchen after hearing the argument from upstairs.

She’d wipe away the tears with her back to me, and dry her hands on the flannel towel that hung from the cabinet below.

“Clean yourself up. It’s almost time for breakfast.” It wasn’t always breakfast she’d say; the meals were interchangeable and all corresponded to the time of day.

I can picture it so clearly, the same tearstained cheeks she had only yesterday with her hair up in a silk wrap and not a dress to be seen for days.

When they fought, the kitchen was her safe place. This barn was his.

“What does it mean to you?” Marcus’s voice calls out and it scares me, causing me to stagger a step back. He’s in jeans and a hoodie, maybe ten feet away under the shade of an old pine tree. Leaning against it, with his hands in his pockets, he looks relaxed which is at odds with everything I know about him.

“What does what mean? What does what mean to me?” I have to speak up a little louder than comfortable for him to hear me. The gray clouds part in the muted sky and as Marcus makes his way to me, I see his face easily enough.

Sucking in a breath, I turn to stare at the barn, pretending I didn’t just see his features plain as day.

“Don’t tell anyone you saw me,” he commands although it sounds like a question. His charming smirk looks far too boyish on him. Maybe it’s the pale blue eyes and faint wrinkles around them that give him his boy-next-door appeal. His dirty blond hair tousled by the wind makes him appear all soft, but his jaw is hard and his features severe the moment he tilts his head. “You understand that, don’t you?”

More than anything, he looks just like Cody.

“You’re his brother … you’re Chris—”

“Don’t,” he says, cutting me off and I silence myself, chewing on the inside of my cheek. My pulse races and my heart hammers. They found dental records. The world thought him dead. My mind filters through the tragic tale. If he’s Christopher, Cody’s brother …

“I can see the wheels turning,” Marcus says, coming up beside me. I stay facing the barn, wrapping my arms around myself as the wind blows.

“Is that right?” I ask him, peeking up but quickly looking away. He’s leaner than Cody; I can’t help but to compare every bit of him to his brother.