Mike tried harder than I did to keep living.
Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I would feel him crying into my hair. Then the next morning he would get up, straighten his shoulders, and leave for work as though carrying on was the only choice left.
One night, his voice cracked as he whispered to me.
“Megan, please, let our boy rest in peace.”
But hope isn’t something you can simply decide to stop feeling.
Hope becomes a habit.
And habits are hard to break.
Long after the police classified Bill’s disappearance as a cold case, I continued chasing every lead and every reported sighting. Every possibility, no matter how unlikely, felt worth pursuing.
At night, Bill still appeared in my dreams.
Always running.
Continue on the next page:
