National Transportation Safety Board

490 L’Enfant Plaza, SW

Washington, DC 30594

To: Thomas Holmes, L.A. Times

Dear Mr. Holmes,

We have reviewed your request for information about the deaths of Becky and Seth Peters from the years 1996 to 2002 and even expanded that search five years before and after your stated dates. There is no record of a fatal crash involving either a Becky, Rebecca or Elizabeth (common name variations), or a Seth, either married or single, with the surname Peters. Our database is definitive for all aircraft-involved incidents in the United States. If you have further questions we are happy to do an additional search.

Sincerely,

Erin K. Sedgewick

My heart crashes against the wall of my chest like it’s trying to escape. It’s fake, just like the Facebook account Thomas constructed for Theo and Katy. Dad holds out the letter to Mom. She gets her glasses from a drawer, takes the letter, and scans it. My parents exchange a quick look. That’s all. No shock, denial, outrage, just a silent look. And in that moment, I know two things: The letter isn’t forged, and my parents knew that Seth and Becky Peters’s plane crash was a lie.

Mom takes off her readers and returns them to the drawer. “I won’t be awake when the two of you leave in the morning,” she says. “Wess will already be out in the orchard. Safe travels.” She turns her back to us and begins to efficiently scrub every inch of the kitchen counters.

NINETEEN

Sylvie

The desperate need to escape pushes me outside like a fist to the small of my back propelling me. But first I fill a bowl with leftover rice, top it with a thick pat of butter, and hand it to Thomas before I quit the kitchen. Dad’s down jacket hangs on the banister. I slide into it. It’s the only way his arms will ever wrap around me. Moose trails me out the door. Dad’s musk rises from the coat—sweat, dirt, and sap—it always made me feel protected. Now it makes me sad. I asked for this and don’t deserve any pity, but that doesn’t mitigate the ache.

A short story we read in junior high comes to mind—“The Man Without a Country.” It was about an American lieutenant in the army who renounced his country during a trial for treason. He was sentenced to spend the rest of his life at sea without any news about his country, family, or friends. He died broken, lonely, and repentant. Will that be me?

I fall onto the porch swing while Moose wanders down the steps to explore. I’m not worried about coyotes or cougars. He’s big enough to scare them away. When the door opens a few moments later, I expect Thomas checking to see if I’ve found a phone. It’s Dad. He sits on the far end of the swing, stares into the orchards. We swing. When I was a kid, we’d hold hands, my tiny one engulfed in his paw. That gave me a sense of permanence, like I was a helium balloon that might float away unless he held tight to the string.