The board glares back at me, reflecting the overhead light.

I lean back in the desk chair, my eyes locked on the black timeline. Mark's autopsy hangs near the Saturday end, along with the transcript I stole from Darren's office. In the corner above Friday, my crude handwriting lists out the evidence against him. I avoid looking at that corner altogether; it only reminds me that we've barely got anything.

Between the two points is empty space.

"Mama," Brynn squeals in my lap, reaching towards one of the dry erase markers. The tray is just out of her reach, but I lean back further for good measure. I may not know much about kids, but some things are just common sense.

A stress ball on the desk catches my eye. Hugging her closer to my chest, I lean over and place it in her tiny hands. She takes it, grateful for something to entertain herself with, then snuggles into the crook of my elbow. When she smiles up at me, I meet her eyes without flinching. All I find is warm hazel.

They've been hazel since my fireside chat with Julia. Though most of my time is being spent investigating Darren, I've made an effort to be around Brynn when I'm home. It started with the intention of linking her to Mark, but in all the times I've sat with her — whether during breakfast in the morning or on the edge of her bed until she's asleep — not once have I seen the shimmer of blue.

Instead, all I've found is Carter. Not just in her eyes, but in the cleft in her chin, or the honey-gold highlights in her hair. I've never noticed Carter's ears much before, but he's passed them down to her too. They both even snort when they laugh, one of my favorite things about him; I remember telling him bad jokes as kids just so I could hear it.

I can't tell if that's why I'm more comfortable around her. Rather than the dread I felt that morning in the nursery, I'm filled with overwhelming warmth whenever we're together. It reminds me of the first time I held Ben as a baby, a day I still recall vividly. It reminds me of how I've always felt about Mark.

"It's late."

Carter's voice startles me, but I don't turn away from the board. An irrational part of me is afraid that if I take my eyes off it, the feeble evidence we do have will slip away.

"You need to sleep," he continues, closer this time. "Both of you."

Brynn simply giggles, unaware that she's totally busted.

"Blame her," I run a finger along the curve of her nose, "She's the one who keeps getting up."

Granted, I never even tried to go to bed, but I don't tell him that part. After putting Brynn down for the third time, only to have her push the office door open minutes later, I caved. She seemed a bit too smug when I pulled her onto my lap, but I know when to admit defeat. And when not to.

"Anything?" I ask.

Carter sighs as he drags one of the office chairs next to mine and settles into it heavily. "Nothing we didn't already know. They confirmed he was a student there in the class of '09, but the problem is, they won't say which program he was there for."

It was easy enough finding The Deener Academy's website, along with the list of programs and its address in West Bubbafuck, Maryland. What's been more challenging is figuring out why he was sent there in the first place. My gut tells me it's connected to his dealing, but the school offers more than just substance-related help. Most kids seem to go for behavioral issues in general, a category Darren fits into easily.

"Figures." I drop my gaze to the top of Brynn's head and gently separate the curls. "Wouldn't want to ruin our losing streak by having something go right."

"We know why Darren transferred," Carter argues. "There's no way this is a coincidence. What, his parents just up and noticed he was an asshole out of the blue?"

I shrug. "It doesn't really matter at this point. None of this does."

"What?"

"This," I gesture to the board impatiently, "none of it matters. It doesn't tell us where Mark was that day. He could've bought from Darren weeks before the party. Knowing where he got it from doesn't stop him from taking it. This should've been the hard part, finding clues about Darren, someone I barely knew not even a week ago. Instead, it's been trying to track down someone I've known all my life, only to realize he's a fucking stranger."

Brynn babbles in my lap, reminding me who my audience is. Preemptively, I cover her ears so I don't have to censor myself.

"Amber—"

"That's what he feels like. A stranger," I meet Carter's eye, "Mark. There was never a day I didn't know where he was. He was the first person I texted in the morning and the last before bed. I used to tell him everything, and I never questioned whether he did the same. But now, I don't even know who this person is. The Mark I knew didn't lie to me. It's not that he hung out with Darren, and it's not that he was still using the drugs. It's that he never said a word."

Carter leans forward, trapping my knees between his. He lets his hands trail up and down my legs, tickling Brynn when he reaches her feet.

"You're mad at him." He states it as a fact.

"He's dead." I don't flinch. "I'm not allowed to be mad at him."

"Guess I'm guilty of breaking that rule, then."

I snort despite myself. "You being mad at him isn't a new concept."

"You were mad at him for awhile, too," he adds, running his thumbs in small circles along my legs. "And you had a right to be — have a right to be."

"I'm more mad at myself," I murmur. I'm not sure if I even want Carter to hear me. "For not being the friend he needed me to be."

Surprisingly, he chuckles at that. His grip on my thighs tightens as he pulls me to the edge of the chair. When his hand comes up to caress my cheek, I don't hesitate leaning into it.

"Mark was never an easy person to understand, Amber. He could be quiet and closed off, and he didn't let many people in. I mean, he didn't exactly embrace me with open arms."

Understatement of the goddamn century. It's my turn to laugh, short and stinted. Nevertheless, it makes me feel a little better.

"But even when we were good, he still always felt distant. There was a barricade between him and me. You were lucky enough to never experience that wall. It certainly wasn't an easy one to climb, and for a long time, it was something I didn't understand.

"But if there was one thing I did understand, from the first day we met, it was how much you meant to him. Mark would've done anything for you, just like you're doing everything to possibly save him. I don't know why he kept parts of his life from you, but I'm positive it's not because you weren't a good enough friend. There's not anyone on earth Mark cared about more than you. It's probably the only thing he'd ever admit we have in common."

"He doesn't sound like a stranger to you." In all the years since the falling out, not once has Carter talked about Mark like this. Not even in the last few days.

He smiles, but it doesn't mask the sadness in his eyes. "Maybe because I've known this side of him longer than you. I've had more years to forgive him... for a lot of things."

Like what? It's on the tip of my tongue, but the house phone rings in the kitchen and breaks the moment.

Carter hesitates, his hand lingering on my cheek. "It could be the school. I may have ended the last call with the promise of a bribe if they cooperated."

"Here's to hoping they're as morally corrupt as their students," I say, forcing a smile.

He sees right through it. "I'll make it short. In the meantime, try putting her down again so we can really talk. We're not done with this."

The best I can give him is a nod. He leans forward, but catches himself. I notice his eyes flicker away from my mouth and realize he was going to kiss me. Not in a sexual way, or even romantically, but just in "be right back."

Before I can decide how I feel about it, he redirects his attention to Brynn, showering her forehead with kisses. She giggles from the onslaught, her small feet kicking against my thighs. When he pulls away, he gazes down at her with so much love it takes my breath away.

"Daddy loves you, baby girl," he whispers, then jogs out of the office to catch the phone.

Soon as he's gone, Brynn squirms in my lap to get down.

"Have I waited you out long enough?" I ask, assuming she's ready for bed.

She pushes against me and starts to fuss, leaving me perplexed. Since the moment I met her, Brynn's been nothing but sweet, so I have no idea how to deal with a tantrum or where it's coming from. She lunges towards the office door, her little hands grasping the air.

Then, clear as day, she shouts, "Dada!"

I almost drop her. Pushing through the shock, I secure Brynn in my arms, but my heart doesn't recover as fast. It sits still in my chest as I stare down at her, eyes wide in astonishment.

"You didn't say mama." Then, louder, "Holy shit, you didn't say mama!"

"Dada," she whines again.

"Carter!" I jump to my feet and swing her onto my hip. When he doesn't answer, I scramble around the desk. "Carter!"

I'm just past the armchairs when the office door swings open and he bursts in like a bat out of hell.

"What's the matter?" he shouts. When he finds no signs of injury on either of us, he eyes me warily. "Was it another vision?"

I don't get to answer — someone else beats me to it.

"Dada!"

Brynn relaxes against me at the sight of Carter, but her arms stay outstretched. I watch the moment he realizes, my heart in my throat. It starts with the stiffening of his shoulders, then it's like his whole body goes into shock. Finally, his eyes find mine, and in them I see his hesitation along with his hope.

"She didn't say mama." This time, there's nothing forced about the smile taking up my entire face.

Then, Carter's across the room, sweeping me into his arms and spinning us through the air. Brynn squeals into my neck as she holds on for dear life, but I can barely hear her over my own laughter. When he sets me down, there's tears in his eyes as they fly over Brynn's face.

"Say it again, baby," he chokes out, the slightest Southern twang slipping in.

"Dada," she babbles back, throwing her arms around his neck. I pass her over, and Carter pulls her close to his chest.

"You're okay," he whispers, and I know that's what this is really about. With only a few months until her third birthday, Brynn's said her second word. I think it's safe to say Carter's a fan of her choice.

"Dada," Brynn coos again. Now that she's gotten the hang of it, she can't seem to stop. My own eyes prick with tears when I catch something in her face. It isn't the same as the shimmer of blue, or the bits of Carter I've become familiar with.

It's me. In this moment, she reminds me of me.

As I look at her, I can't help but picture my own mother's reaction to my first words. Was I embraced? Was she around when it happened, or had it been a moment I experienced alone? Instantly, I decide I don't care and choose to focus on what I can control —ensuring Brynn never feels anything less than loved.

Tentatively, I lean over and plant a kiss against her cheek. It's easier than I anticipated, so I add another for good measure. When I look up, Carter's right there, and neither of us hesitates. His hand comes around my back, while I brace both of mine against his chest. With Brynn cradled between us, our lips lock in a kiss that feels entirely new. For the first time, there's no anger. There's no pain.

Only bliss.

Well, maybe a little pain, but it's purely physical. Something digs into the small of my back, making me shift uncomfortably. Carter senses it and pulls away, ending the moment too prematurely.

"Sorry," he sniffs, wiping his eyes. "It's the phone. I never put it down."

It breaks the small bubble of happiness around us. Instantly, the circumstances of the last few days flood in, pushing away any warmth and replacing it with trepidation.

"Was it the school?"

His expression dims, and I'm expecting the worst. They're not going to help us. We're back to square one.

"No. It was Tanner."

My heart drops for an entirely new reason. The look in Carter's eyes isn't a positive one, but I ask anyway. "And?"

"He found him."

It should be good news, but Carter seems off. Just like he saw through mine, his smile doesn't fool me for a second. My mind jumps to a horrible conclusion.

"Is he—"

Carter shakes his head. "He found Ronnie. Alive."

We leave early the next morning.

Carter pulls the truck out of the driveway before the sun's up. The address Tanner gave us is over three hours away, and I was eager to get an early start. I'm not usually a morning person, but I'm wide awake when we cross over the town line and merge onto the interstate. We're silent the whole ride, with strange energy coming from Carter's side of the car. I'm tempted to pick his brain, just to feel like I'm doing something. Sitting patiently in the passenger seat isn't really working for me, especially when I feel like he could be driving faster.

But he still seems off from last night. It's something I can't pinpoint. Though he hasn't said much, all morning he's been watching me, or leaving lingering touches whenever I'm near. When I've caught his eye or asked him about it, he's insisted he's fine. Despite his best efforts, it isn't very convincing.

For once, I decide not to push it. I've never been one to drop a point, but there are bigger things occupying my thoughts by the time Carter pulls off the exit. My pulse picks up at the sound of his GPS announcing that our destination is coming up on the left.

It directs us to a small parking lot that's attached to a low-rise apartment complex. The exterior is a colorless beige, with severe stainage along the borders of the doorways. I can't help but liken it to a prison, complete with bars on the outside of the first floor windows. Its image doesn't deter Carter; he drives straight up to the front curb and parks, but doesn't shut the car off.

"You're sure you don't want me to come in," he asks for what must be the seventeenth time.

It's one of the few things we did talk about on the ride over. Despite how close Mark and I were, I don't really know Ronnie. From what I remember, he's even more reserved than his brother. Spending years in the foster care system may have changed that, but somehow, I doubt it. I don't want to jeopardize the chances of him opening up by bringing Carter with me, someone Ronnie barely knows.

"I'm sure. I don't wanna scare him, you know? Just stay parked down here and I'll be out soon."

He nods, but his eyes are on the building behind me.

"Hey," I take his hand, "This isn't like Darren. Ronnie's totally harmless."

At that, he finally meets my eye and squeezes my hand. "I know."

He lifts it to his mouth, kisses my fingers firmly, then reluctantly lets me go. I can feel his gaze boring into my back as I hop down from the truck before shutting the door behind me. Gathering my nerves, I walk briskly up the front steps.

"Amber."

His voice stops me just before I reach the door. Turning over my shoulder, I shoot him a questioning look.

"Tell Ronnie I'm sorry."

It's so bizarre that I assume I've heard him wrong, but he doesn't give me time to ask for clarification. In one swift motion, he resituates back in his seat, drives further into the lot, then parks in a spot near the entrance. It leaves me reeling, but I don't want to waste time running over to ask him about it. Shaking off the moment, I head inside the complex's lobby.

A board to my left lists off the numerous apartment numbers, along with the coinciding staircase. I dig around the pockets of my jean jacket until they graze a slip of paper. Unfolding it quickly, I smooth out the creases until my scribbled handwriting is legible. It had been a last minute decision on my part to write the apartment number down, and with how bad "thinking straight" is going right now, I'm glad I did.

Finally working out that it's the right one, I begin the long climb up to the eighth floor. I'm usually winded by a third flight of stairs, but my anxiety has me going strong up until the last step. All I can think about is how much I don't want to have this conversation, despite knowing it's my best bet to save Mark. If anyone on this earth knows him better than me, it's his brother.

But if anyone would've been more destroyed by his death, it would be Ronnie, too.

I pick my way down the hallway, looking deftly between the paper and the door numbers until I stop short at D8. Before I can chicken out, I knock. I fidget while I wait, halfway between knocking again to ensure he heard me and running back the way I came. When I don't hear movement right away, I almost default to the latter.

Then, there's a subtle shuffling, followed by faint footsteps making their way to the door. It stays closed, but I can feel a new presence just on the other side of it. Whoever it is makes no move to let me in, and after some time, my stomach cramps with apprehension.

"Ronnie?" I ask hesitantly, ready to knock again. "Ronnie, it's Amber from back home, remember? Mark's friend —"

The door cracks, and I can just make out a sliver of blue in the eye that peeks out. I feel him scanning every inch of me, and I hold my breath under the scrutiny. I'm nervous to make any sudden movements in case it's what stops him from letting me in.

But when he pulls it open fully, I'm hit with severe vertigo. Ronnie's not just tall; he's huge, taking up most of the doorway so I can barely see into the apartment. Besides some serious scruff around his chin, his face itself hasn't changed much. His cheeks may be fuller than before, and his hair much longer than the buzz cut Mark used to give him, but there's no denying it's Ronnie. The only real change is the look in his eyes. Instead of the innocent gaze of a child, he stares at me with a haunting look of emptiness.

"Amber."

I can't tell if he means it as a question or not. His voice is devoid of any infliction, leaving me guessing. "Yeah, Amber. Do you remember me?"

"Yes," he answers, giving no pause to think about it. He still doesn't move to let me in.

But he doesn't seem upset, so I decide to just be upfront. "I know this is kinda random, Ronnie, but would it be okay if I came in? I just have a couple questions. Nothing too upsetting, hopefully, but —"

"Okay."

He moves out of my way and further into the apartment. Shocked that he's making it this easy, I gingerly follow, careful to step over the clutter that blocks the narrow hall. It leads into a cramped living space with only enough room for two armchairs and a small side table. A kitchenette is set up on the far wall, and I assume the door next to it leads to his bedroom. Overall, the unit is no bigger than our bathroom in New York, making Ronnie seem like a giant.

Albeit, a gentle one. He weaves deftly around the furniture and doesn't bump anything out of place. Without a word, he plops down in the larger of the two chairs, then looks at me patiently.

I take it as my cue to join him. Following the same path, I settle down in the seat across from him, my feet dangling slightly. It's the type of comfy chair that normally makes me want to curl up and relax, but I couldn't accomplish that right now if I tried.

We sit in painful silence. Now that I'm closer to him, Ronnie keeps his eyes glued to a window that overlooks the parking lot. It's hard to read whether he actually wants me here.

"Uhh, I like your place." It feels like something I should say, even though I don't really mean it. Everyone else's lying must be rubbing off on me. "How long have you been here?"

I figure it's best to open with some small talk. No need to ask the hard "where was Mark before he died" questions fresh out the gate. Then again, I don't want him to feel like I'm wasting his time.

But Ronnie doesn't seem to mind. "Eight years, seven months, five days, and," he pauses to check the clock somewhere above my head, "eleven hours."

I blink, not expecting him to have the stats so readily available, but one in particular catches my attention. Eight years ago puts Ronnie at about eighteen — right when he would've aged out of the system. Meaning he's been here ever since, a mere three hours away.

"And you live here all by yourself?"

Ronnie nods, his attention back on the window. "Yes."

He doesn't ask me anything back and offers nothing unprompted, which makes this feel more like an interrogation than a conversation."What about your sisters? Do they live nearby?"

The kitchenette behind me starts to clunker, a continuous banging that has me on edge. It's reminiscent of the ticking I experienced at Darren's, and the last thing I need right now is a vision stepping in and throwing me off.

Though Ronnie does just fine on his own. "Josie's dead."

Someone punches me in the throat until my windpipe feels like it's collapsing. "What?"

"That's what Emma always says. 'Josie's dead,' " he continues as if he's reporting the weather. "Ever since the day they took us away."

"Josie died the night they took you?"

Ronnie shakes his head. "No. Our new house wanted one boy and one girl. Josie had to go somewhere else."

"So how does Emma know Josie's dead?" It's still not adding up in my head. I remember this distinctly about him, the way he gets details confused, and I try to keep it in mind to help with my patience.

"Because Josie can't live without Emma. Emma says that, too."

It's the logic of a child. Part of me wants to insist Josie could be fine, but his tone makes it clear his mind's made up. I decide it best to drop the subject since I can't prove otherwise. No need to upset him about a loss he's already made peace with.

"But you and Emma don't live together now?" I clarify, checking again for a second door.

"No."

"Well, do you still see her sometimes?" I'm barely prying the answers out of him, but not because he's unwilling. It's just, the more I ask him, the clearer it becomes that I need to be specific with my questioning.

"Sometimes. I like when she visits." For the first time, there's a shift in his expression. His mouth lifts ever so slightly in the corners, giving off the illusion of a smile.

"When was the last time you saw her? And did she say where she was going next?" I feel bad bombarding him with questions, but I'm starting to think she might be easier to talk to. Emma couldn't have been older than twelve when they were taken, but she still may remember something pertaining to Mark.

"Mmm, maybe two years?" He seems disappointed that he can't be more specific. "I don't know where she goes, only that she'll always come back. That's what she always says. But..."

"But what?" I watch him squirm in his seat, and I'm afraid I might've pushed a button by accident.

"Two years is a long time for Emma. She might be dead, too." Then, as an afterthought, "She likes bottles."

I frown, losing him again, "What do you mean, Ronnie?"

Slowly, his fingers start to tap against his thumb, one after the other in a silent rhythm. "She likes the same bottles as Mom."

Then, it clicks. Memories of the night Carter and I sat outside their house trickle back. I know that we're getting off topic from why I came here, but questions about Mark's home life begin to break their way through. After all, who better to ask than his brother?

"What happened with your mom, Ronnie?"

His tapping increases, but his face doesn't change. He just keeps staring out the window.

"Mom was sick. They took her away. Emma says she died."

But that's not what has me stumped. "Is that what you told the police when they came? That she was sick?"

He shakes his head. "No."

"Was it Emma? Or maybe Josie?"

"No."

"I don't understand then." It feels hopeless explaining my thought process to him, but in my aggravation, I give it my best shot. "The state took custody after one visit to the house? Was your mother really that bad?"

It's something that's been bothering me since Carter told me the story. He explained that Mrs. Anderson had a problem with drinking, but the police wouldn't have known that based on one drunken night. And if it did only take one look to see something was wrong, how did I miss it for so long?

Of course, I don't ask Ronnie that. I'm pretty certain he wouldn't know the answer.

"No."

"No, she wasn't that bad?" Despite my efforts, my patience is running thin. Even though it's unintentional, he's running me around in circles. "Then why did they—"

"No." Another head shake. "Not one visit. Two."

He's still not looking at me, which I'm grateful for. I can only imagine the expression on my face. A stab of shock rips through my core, and it takes all my effort to get my heart working again.

"Ronnie," I grip the armrest to steady myself, "The police were there before?"

"No. Child Protective Services. That's what Mark said."

"Did Mark say why?" I'm on the edge of my seat now, making sure to be as clear as possible. "Did he say who called them?"

Ronnie's tapping is incessant now, so fast that his fingers are a blur. Still, his face stays placid as he stares out the window.

"Yes," he says simply. "Carter."