I looked up at Mrs. Dilmore, whose face was completely drained of color as she watched my reaction. I didn’t say a word to her. I folded the letter tightly, shoved it into my jacket pocket, and walked out of the school doors into the crisp afternoon air. My mind was racing. If the police had stopped searching the lake because of the current, they had never checked the surrounding wilderness beyond the immediate rescue grid. Mark had managed the entire process, guiding the search teams away from certain areas under the pretense of being a distraught father who knew the terrain.
I got into my car, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white. Instead of driving home where Mark was currently staying, pretending to mourn and managing the insurance paperwork, I turned the ignition and pointed the car toward the highway leading north. The lake was a two-hour drive away. The sun was already beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long, dark shadows across the road, but I didn’t care about the darkness or the wilderness ahead. If there was even a fraction of a chance that my son was alive, hidden away in some forgotten cabin while his father waited for the payout to clear, I was going to find him. I pulled out my phone, dialled the local sheriff who had led the initial search, and hit speakerphone as I accelerated down the open road.
