We argued sometimes.
About bills.
About chores.
About whether the boys were old enough to mow the lawn.
But I believed we were happy.
I believed our marriage was strong.
And I believed that whatever happened, Roscoe would always come home.
I was wrong.
Our children were the center of our lives.
Our oldest daughter, Clara, was eighteen when the boys disappeared.
She was thoughtful.
Responsible.
And protective of her younger siblings.
Our second daughter, Willa, was fourteen.
She loved music and spent hours practicing the piano.
Our youngest daughter, Maisie, was six.
She followed her brothers everywhere.
And cried whenever they refused to let her join their games.
Then there were the boys.
Jory, sixteen.
Tall.
Confident.
Always convinced he knew more than his father.
Tobin, twelve.
Funny.
Restless.
And incapable of sitting still for more than five minutes.
And Ned, nine.
Quiet.
Gentle.
A boy who loved insects, old coins, and asking questions nobody else thought to ask.
