Page 23

"I'm not going to hurt you."

The words bother me because he shouldn't have to say them. He pulls out a folded piece of paper. Not a document. Not official. Just a handwritten note. I take it carefully.

The paper is old. The ink faded. There is one word written across the top.

Sayer

My fingers go cold.

I look up.

"What is this?"

"I have no idea."

"Where did you get it?"

"It was with my things."

"Morrow—"

"My parents told me it was just a name they liked."

"Sayer isn't a common name."

"I know."

"Then why didn't they call you that?"

His expression turns distant.

"Because they said it wasn't mine anymore."

The room feels suddenly colder.

"Is that real?"

He looks toward the window.

"I’m not sure."

A pause. Then quietly:

"But I've always known that name."

I stop breathing.

"How?"

He looks back at me, and he shrugs.

And that answer is somehow worse. Because Morrow Valentine should not know a name nobody gave him. A name I haven't spoken aloud in 15 years.

A name that belonged to a baby I was told I lost.

A heartbeat passes. Then another. The porch light flickers. Once. Twice. I move toward the window. Nothing. No person. No movement. Only the trees. Only shadows. Only my own reflection staring back at me.

But when I turn away…