My hands shook as Hannah pressed play. Marcus\u2019s 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. \u201cIf you\u2019re watching this,\u201d he said quietly, \u201cthen something happened, and I need you to know it wasn\u2019t an accident.\u201d 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\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n
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\u201cI took the boys and left early,\u201d Marcus whispered on the video. \u201cI didn\u2019t 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.\u201d 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. \u201cWhere is your father\u2019s tackle box?\u201d<\/p>\n
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