Part 2: My husband and our three sons d!ed during a storm on their guys’ trip — five years later, my youngest daughter came to me and said, “Mom, I know what really happened that day. The police officer lied to you.”

He was terrified.

Not of the woods.

Not of Aaron.

Of Michael.

I took a step backward.

“We have our own car.”

Michael’s expression changed.

“Rachel, don’t be foolish.”

His voice sounded different now.

Sharper.

“You’re not safe here.”

I looked toward the road.

Then at Owen.

“Get in the car,” I told my daughters.

Michael took another step.

“Rachel—”

I raised my hand.

“Don’t.”

For several seconds, we stared at each other.

Then I said quietly:

“If you want to help, call the state police.”

His jaw tightened.

“I’ve already spoken to Aaron.”

My blood went cold.

Of course.

The two men who’d claimed to be helping us were already talking.

I pulled Owen toward our car.

We climbed inside.

Locked the doors.

And drove away.

In the rearview mirror, I saw Michael standing in the road.

Watching us leave.

He didn’t wave.

***

We drove straight to a state police office outside the county.