Judith’s reaction was immediate.
Not surprise. Not embarrassment.
Terror.
She gripped the boy’s shoulder and said, in a low voice that shook only because she was forcing it not to, “Go inside. Now.”
The boy hesitated, then disappeared down the hallway.
Judith looked back at Kelvin, and in that single glance, truth hit him like a blow to the chest.
Nine years ago, Judith had disappeared.
The child was eight.
Kelvin’s voice barely came out. “How old is he?”
Judith said nothing.
“Judith,” he whispered, “how old is that boy?”
She began to close the door.
“You shouldn’t have come here, Kelvin.”
The door shut.
Kelvin stood in the rain, water running down his face, with one thought burning through him like fire:
Eight years old.
Eight years.
He turned and walked back to the car without speaking. George opened the door. Kelvin got in. The rain kept falling.
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