Lucas organized his tackle that evening the way he had a hundred times.

He had no idea it was nearly the end.

And watching him not know, from the far side of six years in which I knew everything, was almost more than I could bear.

I pressed my hand over my mouth.

Abigail’s arm came around me.

And then, behind Lucas, another figure stepped into the frame — a man leaning in the side door of the garage, hands in his pockets, shoulders low.

It took me a second to place him, and then the breath went out of me, because the man in the doorway of my memory of that weekend, the man who had spent six years insisting there was nothing to find, was standing right there in the recording.