My hands shook as Hannah pressed play. Marcus’s face filled the screen, lit by the dim light of a motel room I did not recognize. He was whispering, glancing over his shoulder, and behind him I could see our three sons asleep on a single bed. “If you’re watching this,” he said quietly, “then something happened, and I need you to know it wasn’t an accident.” My knees nearly gave out. He explained, fast and frightened, that in the weeks before the trip he had discovered his brother Wesley had been stealing from the business the two of them co-owned, forging Marcus’s signature on loans, draining accounts, hundreds of thousands of dollars. Marcus had confronted him. And Wesley had threatened him. Not with anger, but with something colder, a quiet promise that Marcus would regret it.

“I took the boys and left early,” Marcus whispered on the video. “I didn’t tell anyone where. I have the documents. I have the bank records. If Wesley finds us before I can get to the police Monday morning, look in the lining of my tackle box.” The video ended. Hannah and I sat frozen in the kitchen, the same kitchen where Wesley had sat a hundred times over six years telling me to accept what happened and move on. The man who visited often. The man who helped with the girls. The man who had been standing beside me at the memorial. I looked at my daughter, and I said the only thing I could manage. “Where is your father’s tackle box?”