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By the dim light on my desk, the newspaper clippings look older than they are. Though yellowed and wrinkled, they seem strangely heavy, as if burdened with the weight of my life back then. There are some simple truths in life, and this is one of them: Whenever someone dies young and tragically, there’s always interest in the story, especially in a small town, where everyone seems to know each other. When Missy Ryan died, it was front-page news, and gasps were heard in kitchens throughout New Bern when newspapers were opened the following morning. There was a major article and three photographs: one of the accident scene and two others that showed Missy as the beautiful woman she’d been. There were two more lengthy articles in the days that followed as more information was released, and in the beginning, everyone was confident that the case would have a resolution. A month or so after the event, another article appeared on the front page, stating that a reward had been offered by the town council for any information on the case; and with that, confidence began to fade. And as is typical of any news event, so did the interest. People around town stopped discussing it as frequently, Missy’s name came up less and less often. In time, another article appeared, this one on the third page, repeating what had been stated in the first few articles and again asking anyone in the community with information to come forward. After that, there wasn’t anything at all. The articles had always followed the same pattern, outlining what was known for sure and laying out the facts in a simple and straightforward way: On a warm summer evening in 1986, Missy Ryan—high school sweetheart of a local sheriff and mother of one son—went out for a jog, just as it was getting dark. Two people had seen her running along Madame Moore’s Lane a few minutes after she started; each of them had been interviewed later by the highway patrol. The rest of the articles concerned the events of that night. What none of them mentioned, however, was how Miles had spent the last few hours before he finally learned what happened. Those hours, I’m sure, were the ones that Miles would always remember, since they were the last hours of normalcy he would know. Miles blew off the driveway and the walk, just as Missy had asked, then went inside. He picked up around the kitchen, spent some time with Jonah, and finally put him to bed. Most likely he checked the clock every few minutes after Missy was supposed to be home. At first, he might have suspected that Missy had stopped to visit with someone she’d seen on her job, something she sometimes did, and he probably chided himself for imagining the worst. The minutes turned into an hour, then became two, and Missy still hadn’t returned. By then, Miles was worried enough to place a call to Charlie. He asked him to check out the usual route Missy jogged, since Jonah was already asleep and he didn’t want to leave him alone unless he had to. Charlie said he’d be glad to do it. An hour later—during which Miles seemed to be getting the runaround from everyone he called for updates—Charlie was at the door. He’d brought his wife, Brenda, so she could watch Jonah, and she was standing behind him, her eyes red. “You’d better come,” Charlie said softly. “There’s been an accident.” From the expression on his face, I’m sure that Miles knew exactly what Charlie was trying to tell him. The rest of the night was a terrible blur. What neither Miles nor Charlie knew then, and what the investigation would later reveal, was that there were no witnesses to the hit-and-run that had taken Missy’s life. Nor would anyone come forward with a confession. Over the next month, the highway patrol interviewed everyone in the area; they searched for any evidence that might provide a lead, poking through bushes, evaluating the evidence at the scene, visiting local bars and restaurants, asking if any customers had seemed intoxicated and had left around that time. In the end, the case file was thick and heavy, chronicling everything they had learned—which in the end was essentially nothing more than what Miles knew the moment he’d pushed open the door and seen Charlie standing on the porch. Miles Ryan had become a widower at the age of thirty.

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Miles looked away. Across the yard, he could see Jonah going down the slide in the playground, Mark right behind him. He brought his hands together. “Jonah’s mom died right before he started kindergarten. I knew that Jonah used to put his head down on his desk and cry sometimes, and we were all concerned about that. But his teacher didn’t say anything about his work. His report cards said he was doing fine. It was the same thing last year, too.” “Did you check the work he’d bring home from school?” “He never had any. Except for projects he’d made.” Now, of course, it sounded ridiculous, even to him. Why, then, hadn’t he noticed it before?A little too busy with your own life, huh? a voice inside him answered. Miles sighed, angry with himself, angry with the school. Sarah seemed to read his mind. “I know you’re wondering how this could have happened, and you’ve got every right to be upset. Jonah’s teachers had a responsibility to teach him, but they didn’t. I’m sure it wasn’t done out of malice—it probably started because no one wanted to push him too hard.” Miles considered that for a long moment. “This is justgreat ,” he muttered. “Look,” Sarah said, “I didn’t bring you here just to give you bad news. If I did only that, then I’d be neglectingmy responsibility. I wanted to talk to you about the best way to help Jonah. I don’t want to hold him back this year, and with a little extra effort, I don’t think I’ll have to. He can still catch up.” It took a while for that to sink in, and when he looked up, Sarah nodded. “Jonah is very intelligent. Once he learns something, he remembers it. He just needs a little more work than I can give him in class.” “So what does that mean?” “He needs help after school.” “Like a tutor?” Sarah smoothed her long skirt. “Getting a tutor is one idea, but it can get expensive, especially when you consider that Jonah needs help in learning the basics. We’re not talking algebra here—right now we’re doing single-digit addition, like three plus two. And as far as reading goes, he just needs to spend some time practicing. Same thing with writing, he just needs to do it. Unless you’ve got money to burn, it would probably be better if you do it.” “Me?” “It’s not all that hard. You read with him, have him read to you, help him with his assignments, things like that. I don’t think you’ll have any problem with anything that I’ve assigned.” “You didn’t see my report cards as a kid.” Sarah smiled before going on. “A set schedule, too, would probably help. I’ve learned that kids remember things best when there’s a routine involved. And besides, a routine usually ensures that you’re consistent, and that’s what Jonah needs most of all.” Miles adjusted himself in his seat. “That’s not as easy as it sounds. My schedule varies. Sometimes I’m home at four, other times I don’t get home until Jonah’s already in bed.” “Who watches him after school?” “Mrs. Knowlson—our neighbor. She’s great, but I don’t know if she’d be up to doing schoolwork with him every day. She’s in her eighties.” “What about someone else? A grandparent or someone like that?” Miles shook his head. “Missy’s parents moved to Florida after she died, so they’re not around. My mother died when I was finishing up high school, and as soon as I went off to college, my father took off. Half the time, I don’t even know where he is. Jonah and I have been pretty much on our own for the last couple of years. Don’t get me wrong—he’s a great kid, and sometimes I feel lucky to have him all to myself. But at other times, I can’t help but think it would have been easier if Missy’s parents had stayed in town, or if my father were a little more available.” “For something like this, you mean?” “Exactly,” he answered, and Sarah laughed again. He liked the sound of it. There was an innocent ring to it, the kind he associated with children who had yet to realize that the world wasn’t simply fun and games. “At least you’re taking this seriously,” Sarah said. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had this conversation with parents who either didn’t want to believe it or wanted to blame me.” “Does that happen a lot?” “More than you can imagine. Before I sent the note home, I even talked to Brenda about the best way to tell you.” “What did she say?” “She told me not to worry, that you wouldn’t overreact. That first and foremost, you’d be worried about Jonah and that you’d be open to what I was telling you. Then she told me that I shouldn’t worry one little bit, even if you did have a gun with you.” Miles looked horrified. “She didn’t.” “She did, but you have to have been there when she said it.” “I’m going to have to talk to her.” “No, don’t—it was obvious that she likes you. She told me that, too.” “Brenda likes everyone.” At that moment, Miles heard Jonah yelling for Mark to chase him. Despite the heat, the two boys raced through the playground, whipping around some poles before spinning off in another direction. “I can’t believe how much energy they have,” Sarah marveled. “They did the same thing at lunch today.”