For one whole year, I kept my daughter’s room exactly as she had left it. I dusted the shelves, washed the blankets, and called the detective so often he recognized my voice immediately. My husband, Mark, grieved beside me—or so I believed. He avoided the lake, packed away Sophie’s fishing things, and cried at the right moments.

Sophie was twelve when she disappeared during a fishing trip with him. Mark returned alone, soaked and shaking, claiming the current had taken her. The police called it an accident, but I refused to believe it. Still, without evidence, I had nothing to prove my suspicions. And through every painful month, Mark guarded one thing obsessively: a red tackle box that he never allowed me to open.