Replacing My Father's Son

My seven-year-old brother disappeared into the old barn on a Tuesday afternoon.

I watched him from the kitchen window, my hands wrapped around a mug of coffee that had gone cold an hour ago. Colt ran across the dusty yard, his boots too big for his feet, kicking up dirt with every step. His laughter cut through the afternoon heat, bright and careless.

"Rowan, you'll never find me!" he shouted, glancing back at the house. His face was split in a grin, gap-toothed and proud.

I raised my hand. Waved.

He waved back, then disappeared through the barn's open door.

I counted to ten. Twenty. Thirty.

The coffee mug was cold against my palms. The kitchen smelled like dish soap and the faint, lingering scent of Jolene's perfume. Outside, the cattle were quiet in the far pasture. Everything was still.

I set down the mug and walked to the sink. Rinsed it. Dried it. Put it away.

I didn't go after him.

The thing about old barns is they have secrets. Rotting floorboards that give way without warning. Rusted nails waiting to catch skin. Trapdoors with latches that don't open from the inside.

Everyone knew about that trapdoor. Dad had been meaning to fix it for years. "One of these days," he'd say, and then he'd forget, because Colt needed a riding lesson or Jolene needed something from town.

I knew about it too.

Three days later, Pete found him.

Pete was our ranch hand—sixty years old, bent from a lifetime of hard work, with hands like worn leather. He'd climbed up to the barn's second floor to fetch grain for the cattle, same as he'd done every morning for the past twenty years.

The trapdoor was locked. Rusted shut. He had to use a crowbar to pry it open.

Colt's body slid out and hit the floor with a sound I'll never forget. A dull, heavy thud, like a sack of feed. Like something that used to be alive.

I was in the barn when it happened. I'd been mucking out stalls, the pitchfork heavy in my hands, my shirt stuck to my back with sweat. I heard Pete shout. Heard him say, "Oh God, oh Jesus."

I dropped the pitchfork and ran.

Colt was lying on his side, his face turned away from me. His shirt was stained with dirt and something darker. His fingers were scraped raw, nails broken, like he'd been clawing at something.

At the trapdoor, maybe. Trying to get out.

Pete was on his knees beside him, his face gray, his mouth moving but no sound coming out.

I stood there, my boots rooted to the floor, staring at the small, crumpled shape that used to be my brother.

The coroner came. Took the body away. Came back later with a clipboard and a tired expression. Dehydration, he said. The boy had been calling for help. No one heard him.

"Old barn," the coroner said, shaking his head. "Terrible accident."

Jolene screamed when they told her. She clawed at my father's shirt, her nails leaving red marks on his neck, her voice raw and animal. Dad stood there like a statue, his face carved from stone. His hands hung at his sides, useless and heavy.

I stood in the doorway and watched them. Felt nothing.

Or maybe I felt everything, and it was too much to name.

Sheriff Grace Harlow came that evening.

She was tall, taller than most men in town, with sharp eyes that missed nothing. She moved like someone who'd seen too much to be surprised anymore, but still looked anyway. Just in case.

"Rowan Kincaid?" she asked, though she already knew.

"Yes, ma'am."

"I need to ask you some questions."