At eleven, I began pacing.
By midnight, I was terrified.
At dawn, I called the police.
They contacted local authorities near the lake.
Search teams were dispatched.
Hours later, an officer called.
They had found Roscoe’s truck.
It was parked near the boat launch.
The doors were locked.
His wallet was inside.
The empty boat trailer remained attached.
But Roscoe and the boys were missing.
I felt sick.
Then another call came.
The boat had been found on the opposite shore.
Badly damaged.
Partially filled with water.
There were signs it had struck something.
But no bodies.
No Roscoe.
No Jory.
No Tobin.
No Ned.
I remember falling to the kitchen floor.
Clara rushed toward me.
“Mom?”
I couldn’t speak.
I simply held the phone.
And began screaming.
The search lasted five weeks.
Divers entered the water.
Helicopters flew overhead.
Volunteers walked miles of shoreline.
Boats searched coves.
Dogs examined the surrounding woods.
