Noah stood. “I should probably go.”
“No,” I said. “Nobody’s going anywhere until I reach your aunt.”
Nothing.
The kids disappeared upstairs, and I grabbed Mark’s wrist.
“What was that?”
“I thought he looked like someone.”
“Who?”
Mark rubbed both hands over his face. “Look at his eyes.”
He looked like someone.
“What?”
“His eyes. And his chin.”
I stared at him. “Mark, he’s ten. Stop talking in riddles.”
“Wait here.”
He pulled down a box we’d taken from Dad’s house after he died.
Look at his eyes.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for proof that I’m losing my mind.”
He opened an old album, flipped through several pages, then pushed one photograph toward me.
My father, Robert, was maybe ten in it.
I stopped breathing.
I’m losing my mind.
The same heavy brows. The same gray-green eyes.
Even the tiny dimple in the center of his chin.
