Chapter 3

Once, a neighbor from down the road stopped by. Seeing Victor, she asked, "Whose boy is that?"

Amy paused. "Our son. The one we lost when he was little. He's back."

The neighbor said, "Well, isn't that something. A double blessing, and Mike's doing so well, too."

Amy smiled. "Mike's really applying himself. Made the honor roll this semester."

Victor stood nearby, listening to his mother praise Mike. She didn't mention him once.

That night, he didn't sleep in the woodshed. He walked the back roads till dawn.

*****

A month later. A frozen Sunday in mid-January.

Amy was up at dawn, rolling out dough for pot pies. Mike loved the chicken and leek filling, so she made plenty. A pot roast simmered in the oven, and bread pudding cooled on the windowsill.

Lily helped with the prep work. Henry came back from the city with two bottles of good bourbon.

"Make extra of the ones Mike likes," Amy said.

Victor crouched in the yard, splitting firewood. He swung hard, the axe biting deep, the logs splitting clean.

"Victor." Lily stood behind him, looking uncomfortable. "Mom says dinner's ready."

Victor set down the axe and stood. His hands were nicked with cuts from flying splinters. No one had asked if they hurt.

The table was loud and warm.

Mike sat between Amy and William, his plate piled high. Lily sat close, passing him slice after slice of pot pie.

Henry poured him a glass of bourbon. "When you're running the world, don't forget me."

Victor sat at the far end, serving himself, reaching for his own food.

"Victor," Mike said suddenly, "I've talked to Dad about getting you into school after the holidays. The high school in town has a waiting list. We'll need to pull some strings, maybe pay a fee. Don't worry. We'll figure it out."

Victor looked up. "I'm sixteen. I'm not going."

The table fell silent for a moment.

"So what? Sixteen's still school age." William frowned. "Mike's planning on college. You need an education, too, if you want to make something of yourself."

Victor stayed quiet.

He saw Mike's lips twitch, a tiny curve, almost pleased, or something close to it.

After the meal, Victor washed dishes outside.

Mike came out and stood beside him. "Victor, do you have a problem with me?"

Victor didn't look up. "No."

"Then why do you keep avoiding me?" Mike sighed. "We're brothers. I genuinely want to do right by you."

Victor stopped scrubbing. He looked up at Mike. "Then tell me," his voice level, "what really happened when I disappeared at three years old?"

Mike's face shifted. Only for a split second, then it settled back. "Disappeared? Wasn't that the kidnappers? I heard Mom mention it. The county fair. She turned around, and you were gone."

Victor held his eyes. "The woman who raised me told me before she died," he said, spacing each word, "the man who bought me was in his thirties. Local accent. He said he was doing a job for my family."

Wind gusted through the yard. Shadows from the old dogwood tree flickered across both their faces.

"Mike," Victor said, "the year they took you in, were you exactly eight?"

Mike didn't answer. He turned and walked back inside.

Victor stood there, the plate in his hands turning cold.

He didn't know if his guess was right. But he remembered one thing: when he'd vanished at three, Mike had already been eight.

Mike hadn't been brought in after Victor was gone. He'd already been part of this family before it happened.

Then who was he, really?

And which family member had the kidnapper been working for?