I kept reading Ben’s last line until the words blurred. It wasn’t just grief anymore; it was suspicion, sharp and electric. I thought of Aaron standing in my kitchen after the accident, speaking in that slow, practiced tone. I remembered how he’d avoided my eyes when I asked if there was anything “unusual.” How quickly he’d urged me to accept the report, to “start healing.”

Lucy fell asleep on my bed, clutching the teddy bear’s empty body. I sat beside her, the folder open, my mind rewiring every memory of that week. If Ben had been afraid, he hadn’t been afraid of the weather. He’d been afraid of someone. Of being forced onto that road. Of never coming back to “correct the record.” I realized the truth hadn’t been lost. It had been buried—stitched into toys, tucked into envelopes, left like breadcrumbs. And now, finally, I was ready to follow them.