I don’t say these things. Soon.

“Just one last stop,” I say, summarizing all my thoughts of the future in those four little words.

It’s the third and last house on the road I seek. As I creep closer, it unfolds into view.

It’s a pretty house, in a simple way. A two-story front-gabled farmhouse, white-slatted siding matching the snow and camouflaging the house so much that the only dominant feature is the pitched roof, gray and steep, with a brick chimney rising from one side of the distant end. No smoke comes from it.

On the outside, it’s a pleasant house. But I suspect there’s no lack of sadness and despair on the inside.

I don’t dare pull down the driveway; it’s taken enough overcoming of my fears just to get this far. I pull over in front of the black-metal mailbox at the entrance to the drive. The faded, weatherworn family name is displayed in a series of gold-and-black adhesive letters, one of them missing.

BEN ER

James and Maggie Benner live here, or so a search of the county records told me. Both their names are on the title, and they moved out here three years after Caleb, their only son, went missing.

A strange thing. Parents of missing kids tend not to move, keeping hope their child will one day walk back through the front door. But the Benners did move, and in relatively short order. They must have had a sense Caleb was never coming home, and I don’t know if that gave them any relief or not.

Relief.

Is that why I’m here? To tell them I know their son is dead because I watched it happen?

I can’t imagine those words coming out of my mouth, and certainly not in front of Max. Truth is, I don’t have a plan at all. I thought maybe I’d come here and then know what to do. But I don’t. I’m as lost as ever.

“What are we doing?” Max asks.

“Climb into the back seat,” I tell him. “There’s some fresh clothes in a grocery bag. Get changed.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

He unbuckles his belt and scampers over the second row and all the way back into the third.

“Why are our suitcases here?” he asks.

“Because we’re leaving.”

“Leaving Bury?”

“Yes.”

“For good?”

“For good.”

I expect either a scream of happiness or an angry protest. But he remains silent, and as I flick my gaze to the rearview mirror, I see him processing the information.

“No more school here?” he asks.

“No, sweetie.”

“Are we ever coming back?”

I start to lie but force myself away from old habits.

“No.”

A little more silent processing followed by a simple “Okay.”

And the world spins on.

I just stare up the driveway as Max changes. No fresh tracks. A Ford truck is parked near the garage, but there’s enough snow piled on it to tell me it hasn’t been moved anytime in the recent past.