I turned the canvas bag upside down to shake the dust out of the bottom seams.

In the small side pocket were a thermos stopper, an old rag stained with black coffee and an old brass padlock key tied to a short length of yellow twine.

It looked exactly like the spare padlock key Daniel used to keep in the old copper key box hidden under the flagstone in our garage.

“Let’s bring the camera downstairs,” I said.

The yellow video cable slid into the camera’s side port without any trouble.

I plugged the black power adapter into the outlet behind the TV in the living room on Elm Street.

Sophie perched on the wide wooden arm of the couch, her cell phone lying face down on her knee.

The TV screen flickered black, then blue, then filled with lines of horizontal static.

A date stamp came up in small white numbers in the bottom left corner: August 12.

That was two days before Daniel disappeared on his fishing trip to Blackwood Lake.

The picture steadied.

It showed the inside of the wooden tackle shed by the lake’s boat ramp, with dusty window glass and bare pine studs behind the metal shelving.

Daniel was standing three feet from the lens in his heavy brown canvas work jacket.

He reached up with his right hand and rubbed the back of his neck.