But he looked close enough to Jesse at seventeen that my body recognized him before my mind could argue.
The same eyes.
The same cheekbones.
The same half-smile that started at one corner of the mouth before the rest of the face caught up.
My coffee slipped in my hand and landed sideways on the counter.
The boy blinked.
“Ma’am?”
I could barely breathe.
“You look like my brother,” I whispered.
His polite expression tightened.
“My brother disappeared twenty-three years ago,” I said. “His name was Jesse Whitaker.”
The change in him was instant.
His face went pale.
His eyes widened, not with confusion, but with recognition.
Then he did something so sudden that everyone in the store froze.
He vaulted over the low side of the counter and ran.
