He nodded absently. “I think so, yeah,” he muttered. “It looksexactlyhow I remembered it.”
A realtor sign hung in the window of the deserted building. The store had closed, but, from the looks of it, not too long ago. It didn’t have the depressed and stagnant air of a building long empty.
Nate stepped up onto the porch, his boots thunking on the old wooden boards. “Actually, that’s not right,” he said, running a hand down the locked front door. “It’s a lot smaller.”
“That happens,” I said. “All the stuff that seemed big when you’re a little kid is always smaller when you come back to it.”
I scrolled through the photos I’d taken of the news article, cursing myself for not showing him earlier.
“Nate, I have something you need to see.”
He turned around, a dazed look on his face. “What is it?”
I punched in the name of the bridge into my maps app and found it was only ten kilometers away.
“Let’s get in the car. We need to go somewhere. I’ll have to explain.”
A panicky sort of excitement warred with my worry. The words I’d just reread flitted through my head as Nate walked over to join me. I had his past figured out, or at least I was nearly certain I did. Now, the issue was showing him. Would he be happy? Would he hate me for springing this on him? At this point, it was too late to go back. I’d live with the consequences. He deserved to know. If I’d done this the wrong way, then so be it.
He narrowed his eyes warily. “What do you mean?”
My phone was still clutched in my hand, zoomed in on the photo, but I didn’t want Nate to read it. I wanted to explain.
“Come on,” I said, taking his hand. “We need to go down the road.”
Thankfully, he didn’t pull away or try to stop me. He followed me back to the car, and once we were on the road again, I finally relayed what I’d learned.
“You said that when you happened upon the store, you’d been walking for a long time, right?” I asked.
Nate nodded. “Yeah. At least an hour, probably longer.”
“Up ahead is a bridge. A car accident occurred there. Middle of the night on a cold, rainy evening.”
“Uh-huh,” Nate said, his voice shaky.
Some distance beyond, a six-foot-tall sign appeared. Instinctually, I knew it was the one from the newspaper article. The one announcing the bait shop behind us. As we drove past, I glanced in the mirror and saw I was right. My hands shook in anticipation and fear. My mouth was dry, and it was hard to swallow.
Seeing the bridge up ahead, I pulled onto the shoulder. “News reports at the time said a couple lost control of their car and went over the side. Both were killed.” I put the car into park and turned to look at Nate. “Their names were Jacob and Rosa Bishop.”
“Uh-huh,” Nate repeated, nodding vaguely as he stared out the window at the bridge and river ahead.
“The police assumed they were struck by a drunk driver who took off.” I reached out and put my hand on Nate’s. He gripped my fingers in his trembling hand. “Their car was sent over the edge of the bridge into the water below. The driver was never apprehended.” I swallowed hard. “The Bishops had a son who was with them in the car. His body was never recovered, and after a couple days, he was presumed dead, his body swept away by the current. Nate, the little boy’s name was Nathaniel Bishop.”
Nate said nothing, just let go of my hand and got out of the car in a flash.
Exhaling heavily, I opened my door and got out. By the time I’d gotten around to Nate’s side, he’d already walked toward the bridge. Standing there, he had his fingers interlaced and resting on top of his head, staring at the bridge.
Walking up to join him, I put a hand on his back. He trembled beneath my touch. I worried about how he’d react to all this. The proof was almost incontrovertible. The time of year, the bait shop, thename? It all lined up.
Nate gazed out at the water for a long time. Several minutes, at least, but I didn’t say a word. He needed time to think. All I did was stand there and rub soothing circles on his back. The look on his face morphed and changed with each minute that passed. First he looked sad, then angry, then confused.
Since he was a child, Nate had lived with the idea that his parents had been awful people who’d turned him out on the road to fend for himself. That had all been proven wrong. Or, at least, it wasmost likelyproven wrong, based on the evidence.
Finally, without a word, Nate spun on his heel and stalked back to the car.
“Nate?” I said, startled by the reaction. “Are you?—”
“We need to get going. We still have a long way to go,” he called over his shoulder.
