Someone said, “We can’t leave him here.”
Miles answered, “Then take him.”
A vehicle engine started.
Footsteps moved away.
Then the recorder clicked off.
For several moments, Hannah and I couldn’t move.
We had spent five years visiting four graves.
Five years believing our family had been destroyed in a single accident.
But at least one of my sons had survived the crash.
And Miles Carter had known.
I looked at Hannah.
Her face was streaked with tears.
“Benjamin,” she whispered.
I seized her hand.
“My baby didn’t die in that accident.”
Hannah shook her head slowly.
“Mom, we don’t know what happened afterward.”
I knew she was trying to protect me.
But something fierce had awakened inside my chest.
A feeling I hadn’t allowed myself in five years.
Hope.
Terrible, frightening hope.
I took the memory card from the container.
“We need the police.”
