Part 3: The Search at the Boathouse
The silence that followed was shattered by my father stepping toward my husband, his fists clenched, while I immediately reached across the table to pull Jeremy into my arms.
“I’m calling the police,” my father growled, pulling out his phone.
My husband didn’t try to explain further. He bolted for the front door, slamming it behind him as his tires screeched out of the driveway into the night. But he wasn’t running to escape—he was running to hide the evidence before anyone could get there.
Within twenty minutes, three police cruisers, accompanied by a dive team and forensic units, were speeding toward the old state park at the edge of the lake. I sat in the back of the lead cruiser with Jeremy, holding his hand tightly. For eight years, I had believed my son was trapped in a wall of grief; I had no idea he was guarding a crime scene to keep himself alive.
When we arrived at the abandoned boathouse on the north shore of the lake, my husband’s car was already parked near the tree line.
Police officers with flashlights flooded the brush, their weapons drawn, surrounding the dilapidated wooden structure. Behind the overgrown vines and rusted chain-link fence sat a heavy, sealed concrete well cover that had been padlocked for decades.
Standing over the well, holding a crowbar, was my husband—his face drenched in sweat, panicking as he tried to pry open the heavy iron lid.
“Police! Drop the crowbar! Put your hands on your head now!” Detective Miller roared through the megaphone.
To see the final discovery and justice served, continue reading below for Part 4.
