Page 17 of What Comes Around

“I’ll come,” I said.

I flew to Riverton on Friday evening.

Brandon met me at the airport himself. He looked older than the last time I had seen him, not just tired, but worn down in a way guilt tends to carve into a person.

We walked to the car without much conversation. The drive started the same way, the silence stretching between us.

“He’s shy,” Brandon said eventually, eyes fixed on the road. “He’s polite. Quiet…”

I knew that kind of child.

The kind who learned early that being small and silent made adults less volatile. The kind who watched everything and said nothing. The kind who tried to take up as little space as possible because the world had already proven it could be unpredictable.

The house felt unchanged when we arrived. It smelled of polished wood and expensive candles, the same carefully curated version of warmth it had always presented to the world.

The boy stood near the staircase when Brandon called him.

“Evan,” he said gently. “Come here.”

Evan stepped forward slowly. He was small for his age, with dark hair and serious eyes. His hands were folded in front of him, as if he were waiting to be judged.

“This is your sister,” Brandon said.

Evan looked at me, then lowered his gaze.

“Hello,” he said quietly.

My chest tightened.

“Hi,” I replied softly. “I’m Ashley.”

He gave a hesitant smile, uncertain but sincere.

Marissa watched from the doorway.

Her smile never reached her eyes. Her posture was rigid, controlled. She did not greet me. Her attention never left the boy.

Evan glanced toward her automatically before looking back at me. The movement was subtle, but I recognized it immediately.

Fear.

Apple was nowhere in sight.

Brandon cleared his throat. “Evan will be staying here for now, until we know what happened to Elena.”

Marissa’s fingers tightened against the doorframe.

The boy stayed close to Brandon's side, not touching him, but clearly orbiting him like he was the only safe object in the room.

I crouched slightly in front of him, keeping my movements slow, non‑threatening.

“Do you like school?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered.

“What’s your favorite subject?”

“Math.”