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.”

I’d answer with two.

Three meant, *Are you there?*

Two meant, *Always.*

I’d taught him that when he was four.

Nobody else knew.

My knees nearly gave out.

“Owen, sweetheart?”

A small voice answered.

“Mom, please don’t let Aaron find me.”

Then, from upstairs, Aaron called again.

“Rachel? I know you’re down there.”

His footsteps moved toward the staircase.

And suddenly, I understood that the nightmare I’d been living for five years wasn’t over.

It was just beginning.

***

My husband, Ben, disappeared five years earlier.

He’d taken our two sons, Caleb and Owen, on what was supposed to be a weekend fishing trip.

Caleb was fourteen.

Owen was nine.

Hannah had already started college, and Lucy wanted to spend the weekend with friends.

I remember standing in the driveway as Ben loaded the truck.

Owen was wearing a ridiculous green fishing hat that kept falling over his eyes.

Caleb complained about having no phone signal at the cabin.