The boy’s eyes flicked down for half a second before snapping back up, sharp and defensive.
“I didn’t steal it,” he said hoarsely. “It’s mine.”
“I’m not saying you stole it,” Nathaniel replied carefully. “It just looks exactly like one I gave someone very important to me.”
The boy tightened his grip on the bag.
“I’ve always had it. As long as I can remember.”
The words hit Nathaniel like a physical blow.
The timing fit. Too well.
And when he really looked—past the grime, the bruises, the hollow cheeks—he saw the eyes. The same gray-green eyes that once watched him from across the breakfast table. The same eyes that belonged to Isabella.
When Nathaniel asked the boy’s name, there was a brief hesitation.
“Noah Reed,” the boy said.
The name sat awkwardly, like a borrowed jacket that didn’t quite fit.
Against every instinct telling him to slow down, Nathaniel offered food, gesturing toward a nearby café. Suspicion flickered across Noah’s face, but hunger won—as it always did.
They sat in a corner booth. Nathaniel ordered far too much. He watched Noah eat with desperate restraint, eyes constantly scanning the room, body angled toward the exit.
Nathaniel asked gentle questions.