I sat on my daughter’s bed, holding that note, and read every word Clara had written.
She must have hidden it before the trip.
She knew something was going to happen.
The second line said:
“Gwen was not who she told you she was.
The trip was not an accident.
I was afraid to tell you before we left, but I couldn’t leave without writing this down.”
I read it three times.
Then I read it again.
I called my nephew into the room.
He read it over my shoulder and went completely still.
“Uncle…
Gwen is still alive,” he said quietly.
“She moved back to town two years ago.
She lives twenty minutes from here.”
I hadn’t spoken to Gwen since the search ended.
She had cried at every meeting with the police.
She had held my hand at the memorial.
She had told me she would never stop blaming herself for giving them directions to that road.
But there was more in the box.
Beneath the note was a photograph.
