"You didn't bring me here to kill me?" Wesley rubs his thumb on the hard metal.
I shake my head and raise my hands. "That's my only weapon, boy. If I wanted to kill you, I would've done it earlier. I don't have any other guns on me. You could take me out with one shot."
Wesley grits his teeth. "You just put more faith in me than anyone has in years."
"How many years?" It's a terrible time to press, but this may trigger a memory. "Do you recall?"
Wesley shakes his head. "No. Too many. More than I can count."
Eight. I force myself not to say this. I want to tell Wesley he's the Bettencourt boy, the twelve-year-old who evil people abducted from this very backyard. But I promised my brothers I’d keep this information from him.
I’ve heard of cases where psychologists plant false memories in their patients’ minds. They offer tidbits of misinformation and their patients takes the bait without realizing it. If I told Wesley he was the Bettencourt boy, he might build a fake narrative in his head that could be impossible to break.
There’s also the possibility that the DNA test was inconclusive. Right now, all signs point to Wesley being the missing boy, but we don’t know for sure.
Maybe the sample the Bettencourts gave the authorities eight years ago that matched with the strand of hair my contact sequenced was tainted. Or Wesley Bettencourt has a match somewhere else in the country that my contact didn’t know about.
"Come with me, boy." I’ll keep calling Wesleyboyuntil he confirms that he's the Bettencourt boy. If he doesn't, I won’t give him an assumed identity. "Follow me."
"Where are we going?" A worried twinge ricochets across his voice.
I grip his free hand that isn't holding the weapon. "You'll find out when we arrive. Hopefully, you'll remember, too."
I lead Wesley through the garden and take him to the big weeping willow tree out back.
It overlooks a quiet lake in which swans and ducks swim. A fish jumps out of the water and hurries into the reeds. Frogs croak in the distance and birds fly overhead.
"Follow my finger." Dropping to my knees, I point to the giant weeping willow tree swaying in the wind. Of course, there's no tree fort in it, not now. Constantine found an article on a local news site that said the Bettencourts removed the platform after the kidnapping. The lingering reminder of their lost son was too painful. "Tell me what that is."
Wesley frowns as he stares at the tree. He scratches his forehead, studying the trunk, then guiding his gaze to the spot where I'm pointing.
"Am I supposed to remember this?" He bites his lower lip.
I tighten my grip on his body. "Yes. If you are who we think you are, you should have some vivid memories."
Wesley grits his teeth. "I remember a weeping willow tree, but mine was different."
I bite the inside of my cheek. "How so?"
"Mine had three huge branches on the left side." He points high in the tree. "And a big tree fort, as well. I think I played in the tree fort when I was younger."
I shake my head. "Try to imagine the tree with the fort in it. Pretend someone removed it."
"I don't understand why they'd remove my fort. I believe I loved that place."
I point to the tree again. "Does this look familiar at all?"
I'm grasping at straws. Wesley doesn't recall this backyard.
Wesley shrugs. "I'm sorry." He stares at me apologetically. "I want to help, but none of this triggers anything. Or perhaps it did at some point, but I lost the memories."
I pick up a piece of bark that fell off the tree. "Touch this. Maybe it'll help."
Wesley brushes his fingers across the bark. "Nothing. My mind is still blank."
I wrap my arms around Wesley's waist. "It's okay." I bury him in a hug. "Trauma sometimes does this. You only escaped from the warehouse last week, and you're still in shock. Maybe you'll remember if we return in a week or two."
Wesley sniffles. "I wish I could help more. It’s just that none of this is familiar." He scrunches his face together. "When I envision the tree in my mind, it doesn't look like this one. It's taller and the leaves are a darker shade of green."