Lisa Scottoline - Look Again

"Dad, careful of your back," Ellen said, though her father looked fine, his face only slightly red.

"Are you kidding? This makes my day! I missed my grandson!"

Will hung on tight. "Pops, I went down the big hill!"

"Tell me all about it," her father said, carrying Will into the living room. Ellen took off her hat and coat, set them on the chair, and looked around. The rug was rolled up, leaving a dull yellow square on the hardwood floor, and cardboard boxes sat stacked all over.

"We only went down the hill one time, and Mommy wouldn't let us go down again." Will held up an index finger while her father set him down, then unzipped his coat, tugged it off, and tossed it aside, leaving the sleeves inside out.

"Why wouldn't she, Willy Billy?"

"She said it was too big."

"She's so mean!" Her father stuck his tongue out at Ellen, which sent Will into gales of laughter.

"Hope this isn't a bad time." She gestured at the boxes. "Did we catch you in the middle of packing?"

"Nah." Her father carried Will over to the couch and sat with him in his lap. "Barbara did all that. She's finished for today."

"You didn't put the house up yet, did you? I didn't see a sign."

"Nah, but it'll go fast. Frank Ferro was asking me about it already." Her father gestured to a small cardboard box on top of the TV. "That one has some things from your mother, pictures and whatnot. You might want to take it home."

"Sure, thanks," Ellen said, caught off-balance at the notion of Barbara, packing her mother into a box.

"Where's my Thomas the Tank Engine?" Will asked, looking around in bewilderment. The toy box that had been tucked in the corner was gone.

"I got the horse right here," her father answered. He got up, took Will by the hand, and crossed him to a large cardboard box, with the top flaps open. "Look inside, cowpoke. The gang's all here."

"My truck!" Will dug in the box, pulled out a red truck, and knelt and zoomed it back and forth on the floor, where its hard plastic tires made a satisfyingly rumbling sound.

Ellen said, "Will, I'm going to talk to Pop in the kitchen."

"Be right back, pal," her father said, straightening up, and they went into the kitchen, where her father leaned against the counter and faced her. He crossed his arms in a pale yellow golf sweater and khakis, with a smile. "God love that kid."

"I know."

"He got so big! He grows like a weed."

"He sure does."

"You gotta bring him over more, El. Barbara's dyin' to meet him."

"I will."

"He's so much smarter than her grandkids. They hardly talk, and him, you can't shut up!"

Ellen laughed, marveling at the emotion Will always brought out in her father. He became a different man when Will was around, and she loved it. Just not now. She had called him for a reason. "Dad, I need to talk to you."

"Sure. Right. What's on your mind, kiddo?"

"This is going to sound strange, so prepare yourself." Ellen lowered her voice, though Will was out of earshot. "What if I told you that Will might really be a boy named Timothy Braverman, who was kidnapped from a family in Florida, two years ago?"

"What?" Her father's eyes widened, and Ellen filled him in quickly, starting with the white card, going through to the composite drawing, and ending with the visits to Gerry and Cheryl. They were interrupted twice by Will, and Ellen sent him back to the toy box with a foil bag of potato chips, always a handy bribe.

"So, what do you think?" she asked, when she was finished.

"What do I think?" Her father looked mystified. "Are you serious?"

"Yes."

"I think you're just like your mother."

"What does that mean?" Ellen felt resentment flicker like an ember in her chest.

"It means you're a worrywart. You worry too much!"

"How am I worrying too much?"

He shrugged. "You dreamed this up. It's crazy."

"I'm not crazy, Dad."

"But you don't have any facts. You only have assumptions." Her father frowned, making deep wrinkles in his forehead. "You're assuming lots of things that may or may not be true. I'm surprised at you, a newspaperwoman."

Ellen hadn't heard that term in years. "What are the assumptions?"

"You can't tell anything from those stupid cards about the missing kids. I get them, too."

"Did you see the last one, with Timothy Braverman?"

"Who the hell knows? They're junk mail. I toss them out."

"Why? They're real people, real kids."

"They have nothing to do with me, or you. Or my grandson."

Ellen tried another tack. "Okay, remember that photo I showed you, last time I was here?"

"No."

"You said it was W. You thought it was W. Remember?"

He frowned. "Okay, whatever."

"It wasn't Will, it was Timothy Braverman. You thought it was W."

"What was that, a trick, then?"

"No, Dad. Keep an open mind. I need you to take this seriously."

"But I can't. It's just silly."

"Dad." Ellen touched his arm, the cashmere soft under her fingertips, and the tight line of his mouth softened just a little. "It wasn't a trick, but the photo wasn't W. It was Timothy. They look that much alike, exactly alike."

"So the kid looks like Will, so what?" He shrugged.

"They could be the same kid."

"No, they can't." Her father almost laughed. "You can't tell anything from those police drawings. I know, they're on TV news all the time." He pointed to the doorway. "They look like one of Will's coloring books, in that damn chest out there."

"They have an artist who does them. They're real tools the police use.

"There's no way in the world you can tell who a composite is by tracing a picture over his face." Her father looked at Ellen with a smile reserved for the delusional, and for a minute, she almost saw it his way. "You adopted that little boy in there, my only grandchild, legally. You had a lawyer."

"Who killed herself."

"So what? What are you saying?"

Ellen didn't even know. "It just seems strange. Coincidental."

"Bah!" Her father waved her off, chuckling. "Forget about it, it's crazy talk. You adopted that boy, and he loves you. He was half-dead. Nobody wanted him but you. Nobody was there for him but you."

Ellen felt touched, but that wasn't the point. "What matters now is whether he's Timothy."

"He is not Timothy. He's just a kid who looks like Timothy. He's not the same kid. He's W. He's ours." Her father paused, then looked at her with a half smile. "El, listen to me. Barbara's grandkids, Joshie and Jakie, you could swap 'em out and nobody would know the difference."

"Are they twins?"

"No, but they look alike, and they look like Will, too. They're all little boys, and they all look alike."

Ellen burst into laughter, and it felt good.

"Well, it's the truth." Her father warmed to the topic, moving closer. "Didn't anybody ever say to you, "Hey, you look just like somebody I know?" That ever happen to you, Elly Belly?"

Sure.

"Of course. It happens to me all the time. I look like people, who knows? Handsome men. George Clooney, maybe." Her father grinned. "That's all you got goin' on here. Don't worry about it."

Ellen's heart eased a little. "You think?"

"I know. They look alike but they're not the same kid. Will is ours, forever. He's ours." Her father gave her an aromatic, if awkward, hug, and Ellen knew he believed he had closed the deal.

"You sold me, Dad."

"I'm always selling somebody, kiddo." Her father grinned again. "But it's easy when you believe what you sell, and I believe this. Relax, honey. You're getting all worked up over nothing. Forget all this nonsense."

Ellen wanted to believe him. If Will wasn't really Timothy, then it all went away and they could be happy again.

"You seein' anybody?"

"Huh?" Ellen didn't know when the topic changed. "You mean, like a date?"