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mean, are you, like, the Walker Barnes? The dude who owns GeekBoy? The guy who wrote Blade and Demonfire and Armageddon ? Why would Walker Barnes want to see my mom?”
    “Yeah, that’s me.” Gripping the doorjamb, Walker searched Nick’s face again.
    He should feel it now. The bond. But he didn’t.
    The teen’s eyes had gone huge behind his thick glasses. “Awesome. Man, Davy is going to be sooo bummed he left. Wait until I tell him who he missed.”
    Stupid to think he’d feel some mystical link. Or that Nick would. All Nick saw was the guy who’d written his favorite games.
    “Could you tell your mom I’m here first?”
    “Right. Yeah. Okay. Just a minute.” He started away from the door, then turned back. “Oh, come in. You don’t have to wait on the porch.”
    Nick took off, yelling, “Mom! Mom! Come here!”



CHAPTER FOUR
    W ALKER GLANCED AROUND the living room. A green recliner stood against one wall, and it looked as if it had been there for a while. There was a worn spot on the footrest and a dark stain on the arm of the chair.
    The light blue denim couch was newer. A compact disc player trailed headphones onto the floor. He hadn’t seen one of those gadgets in years—everyone he knew had the latest iPod. A computer sat on a small, paper-covered desk between the living room and dining room.
    A bat, several baseballs and a catcher’s mitt lay jumbled on the worn carpet.
    The place was messy. Lived in. Comfortable.
    Worlds away from his tidy, professionally decorated condo. No clutter dared challenge his housekeeper.
    Photos stood on a bookcase at the end of the room, and Walker picked up one frame that held at least ten pictures of Nick. School pictures, probably. Had Walker’s mother kept his in a frame, so prominently displayed?
    He didn’t remember.
    In the first shot, Nick was a child with light blond hair and chubby cheeks, wearing a dress shirt and grinning at the camera.
    Eyeglasses had been added three pictures later. By the seventh one, the boy’s hair had gotten darker, and the dress shirt and grin had disappeared. In the last photo, he wore a baggy T-shirt and scowled at the camera.
    Ten pictures. All Walker knew about his son’s life.
    You’re jumping to conclusions.
    Hardly. He hadn’t mistaken that flash of Roy Barnes when Nick smiled.
    He heard the brittle sound of wood cracking as the frame separated in his hand. As he was trying to shove the pieces back together, he spotted another photo. Picking it up, he saw it was a professional photograph of a toddler sitting on a blanket—a much younger version of Nick. He wore a T-shirt and overalls and was holding a large ball.
    Walker started to set it down, then hesitated. The details were fuzzy in his mind, but the picture looked eerily similar to one his mother had of him.
    Probably taken by the same photographer. How many could there be in this tiny town?
    He started to slide the photo out of its frame, but heard footsteps in the next room. He shoved it back onto the shelf and moved away just before Jen appeared, followed by Nick. As she paused to set a timer on the dining-room table, Nick tried to move around her.
    Jen’s jeans had holes in the knees, and her baggy green sweatshirt said UW Milwaukee. Her face was pale. “Walker.” She rubbed her arms as if she was cold. “What are you doing here?”
    “Mom!” Nick interrupted. “Do you know who this is? It’s Walker Barnes. He’s—”
    “I know who he is,” she said as she touched the boy’s arm. “Go downstairs and help Grandma with the laundry. Then start your homework.”
    The kid flushed. “You can’t send me away like I’m a baby or something. I’m—”
    “Nick. Downstairs. Now.”
    The boy stared at her for a long moment. Then, with a quick look at Walker, he ran down the stairs. A door slammed moments later.
    “What do you want?” Jen’s gaze darted around the room. She nudged the baseball equipment to the side with her foot, and when one ball got