“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.
Then I see the school portrait on the mantel. I get to my feet and move closer as the room goes silent. I study the young boy in the picture. It’s me. I was innocent. So unaware of the evil in the world. But I don’t remember this particular photo. I turn to my mother and find her watching me, happiness radiating from her eyes. And it hits me.
They never forgot me.
My knees shake and my vision narrows. I feel strong hands guide me back to the couch. My father’s hands. I hear Liam’s hated voice in my head, stating over and over that my family didn’t want me.
“How old am I?” I blurt. I haven’t really spoken. I was bombarded with questions at first, but they stopped after I put my head on my knees, wanting to cover my ears.
My mother’s eyes fill. “You’re thirty-two.”
I’m shocked. “I’m old.”
I’ve lost so many years.
The twins tentatively sit on a large stuffed square beside the couch. I have seen both of them cry, but they have also held something back. I felt their hugs, but something was missing. They are as unfamiliar to me as this room, and I suspect I feel the same to them. Mentally I know they’re my family, but the emotional connection isn’t there yet. Not like I feel with my parents and Rowan. I look from one to the other, still searching their faces for something I recognize, and I see hints of my father around their eyes and mouths. “Which of you . . . who is who?” I bungle the question.
“I’m Ivy,” says the one in the black dress.
“West is your son?” The boy was clinging to her earlier.
“Yes.”
I memorize her face, repeating her name in my head. I look at Iris and do the same. “The two of you were so tiny, Iris.” Her dark hair is long and wavy, a contrast to her twin’s perfectly shaped hairstyle.
I can’t get out of my mind how beautiful all three of my sisters are.
I feel like a filthy dog next to them.
I stare at my shoes again.
“Your birthday was just the other day,” said my mother. “We had a party for you. We hold one every year.”
I missed twenty-five birthdays with them.
I look at her and immediately drop my gaze. “Did you look for me?”
My mother clutches my arm. “Oh, honey. We searched hard for you for years. We never gave up hope.”
“I still go search every year,” Rowan says quietly.
I glance at her. “I thought you were dead. Killed by wild animals.”
She catches a breath. “I was found by a search dog and handler. They kept looking for you too.”
I shudder and lower my head. “I thought I caused your death by leaving you alone.”
She’s suddenly kneeling before me, lifting my chin, making me look at her. Her face is wet with tears. “You were a seven-year-old child trying to save your little sister who had a broken leg. You tried so hard, Malcolm. You carried me so far. But you were right to hide me and go find help. It was the logical thing to do,” she says forcefully. “You were so brave for a child. It boggles my mind what you did for me.”
I screw my eyes shut, remembering how terrified I was that day when I realized I’d lost the path back to her. “I’m so sorry.”
“What are you sorry for?” She shakes her head. “You did nothing wrong.”
She’s right. But I’m accustomed to apologizing for every little thing even when it’s not my fault.
“Malcolm.” Rowan moves her hands to my knees. My hands are still cuffed behind my back, making me lean forward at an awkward angle. “Look at me.”
I try. I drop her gaze and then try again. It’s almost physically impossible for me.
“Where have you been all this time, Malcolm?” she asks softly.
I can’t speak and I close my eyes. Shudders rack my body. It’s too hard. I want this moment with my family to stretch on and on, but if I tell them where I’ve been, they’ll find out about the bodies. And I’ll be taken away again. This time to prison.
“Did he find you that day in the woods?” It’s a whisper, and her voice shakes.
He was so mean to her. She was just a little girl. I want to cry for the time she suffered with him. I’d go back if it meant her memories of that time would be erased.
I give a small nod. My eyes still closed.
My parents suck in breaths, and my father utters a long curse.
“What happened to you after Jerry was caught?” she asked.
I don’t want to tell her about Liam, so I say nothing. I open my eyes. I’m miserable and long to share everything but know it will end this amazing day.
A day I dreamed about for twenty-five years.
Rowan must sense my reluctance, so she asks a different question. “Malcolm, why didn’t you come before now?”
I take a deep breath. “I couldn’t escape until today.”
I swear the air is sucked from the room. The silence is deafening.
“You were held captive all that time?” my father asks, his voice tight.
I can’t look him in the eye, but I nod.
“That’s why you didn’t know your age.” My mother sobs, burying her face in her hands.