On Monday night, he finally showed me the messages.
Wy, I swear I didn’t know about the appointment.
I told him to cancel it. I told him a hundred times.
I’m not asking you for anything. I’m never going to ask you for anything.
I just didn’t want you to go your whole life not knowing you had a brother.
“He’s lying,” Wyatt said flatly. “I heard him on the phone.”
I wasn’t so sure anymore. But I kept thinking about that sticky note, and I didn’t argue.
On Tuesday morning, I drove to the apartment to pick up a few of Wyatt’s things. Ezra had texted me that he’d be out and that the spare key was under the mat.
The place still smelled like fresh paint. Half-unpacked boxes everywhere. Wyatt’s gaming chair still wrapped in plastic. On the fridge, someone had stuck a photo of the two boys at age seven, arms around each other’s necks, missing the same front tooth.
