The middle bedroom of the three upstairs was also the smallest. And appeared to be the least used. In fact, Rose reckoned nothing had been changed in about fifteen years, since the death of its occupant, Thomas Bonden. Like the rest of the house it was clean, reasonably dust-free. Thomas' posters—Pulp Fiction, a young, sexy Cameron Diaz, British rock band Oasis, and various biker images—covered most of the wall space. Underneath, the tasteful light blue paint hadn't faded. His trophies for dirt-biking and karate were pristine. Even the cigarette lighter and fingerless biking gloves on his bedside table hadn't been moved. His heavy-duty biker boots stood at the foot of his bed, his jacket and cut hanging neatly on hangers on the knobs of his armoire.

She half-expected him to march in, pissed off at having to play nice throughout that family outing at the fair with his father’s secret girlfriend and her annoying pre-teen daughter. Instead, Bellamy stood over by the window, gazing out over the acres of disused farmland and the graying sky above. What was he thinking about? Why had he come up here, to this specific room?

There was a good photo of him over on the sideboard, posing with his dirt bike and his dad on the passing area of some country lane. He looked especially proud and cocky, and of course insanely cute in his padded riding gear. He'd had shorter hair then. It made him seem even more boyish. Even more...

The sound escaped her throat in a choked whisper. “Bellamy?” The revelation hit Rose like a punch of cold air and she shuddered.

“You're wondering why I look like Thomas Bonden.” His voice was flat, professional. He didn't turn from the window. “You want to know why your mother brought us here.”

“Let's start with the first one.” Her left knee started to wobble; she shifted position to steady herself. “Who are you, really?”

“Bellamy.”

“Bullshit. You look exactly like this man.” She pointed to a photograph. “Not just similar. It’s like… you are him.”

Bellamy sighed. “I know.”

“How do you explain that?” She wasn't even sure if she wanted to know the answer, or if she was ready for it. The whole thing was uncanny. Unnatural.

“I can't. I just happen to look like him.”

“You just happen to look exactly like the only son, the dead son, of my mom's old boyfriend? Not good enough. What's going on? Why did she bring us here? She knew you looked just like him but she said nothing. What am I missing?” When he didn't reply, Rose took the photo over to him, shoved it in his face. “That's some spooky shit right there. I think you owe me an explanation.”

Bellamy cast her a wounded gaze that softened her a little, just enough to accept his hand when he offered it to her.