Everyone told me my twin died thirteen years ago. Then I saw him alive in a roadside diner — and the fear in his eyes was even greater than the shock in mine.
Thirteen years ago, half of me had walked into a river and never came back out.
Rain streaked the windshield in long silver ribbons, and the interstate hummed beneath my tires like an old lullaby I never asked to remember. Twenty-eight years old, and still every July I drove somewhere just to keep moving.
I could still hear Liam laughing that night, splashing water at my face, shouting something ridiculous about a snapping turtle. Then I turned, wiped my eyes, and he was gone. No splash. No scream. Just the black water folding shut like a closing book.
My phone buzzed on the passenger seat. Mother, again.
“Just heading home.”
“I went to the stone today. I brought those little white flowers he liked.”
“I know, Mom.”
“Uncle Ray called. He says you’ve been quiet with him.”
I tightened my grip on the wheel. “I’ve just been busy.”
“He worries about you. He always says you have to stop looking backward. He’s not wrong, honey.”
“I know what he says.”
She sighed the way she’d been sighing for thirteen years. “Get some sleep when you get in.”
I hung up and glanced at the glove compartment. Inside was Liam’s worn missing-person flyer, folded so many times the creases had gone soft. I never drove anywhere without it. Uncle Ray didn’t know that. He’d taken over Dad’s affairs after the funeral, handled every lawyer and every check, and told me at seventeen, “Grief is a room. Don’t decorate it.”
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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