My husband drove the car into the river with my brother and me trapped inside, but when the water had already reached my neck, the man who had been “paralyzed” for 15 years stood up from his wheelchair, k:ick:ed the door open, and whispered, “Play d:ea:d. He’s watching.” I didn’t ask any questions… until I saw who was waiting for my husband on the shore.

Founders.

No mention of how they died.

No mention of Victor.

I did not want the murder to become the center of their lives.

They deserved to be remembered for what they built.

Tobias disagreed at first.

Then he understood.

Sometimes justice means naming what happened.

Sometimes healing means refusing to let it become the only thing people remember.

On the fifteenth anniversary of the river, Tobias and I returned to Savannah Creek.

The old barrier had been replaced.

The pier was gone.

The road looked ordinary.

That disturbed me.

Places where terrible things happen rarely look different afterward.

We stood near the water.

Tobias placed his hands in his pockets.

“You know what I thought when Garrett climbed out?”

“What?”

“That I had waited too long.”

I looked at him.

“To tell me?”

“Yes.”

“You had.”

He smiled sadly.

“I know.”

I stared at the river.

“Do you know what I thought?”