Chapter 2 - The Truck at the Marina
Sunday evening, dinner went cold. At seven, I called Grant. No answer. At seven-thirty, I called our oldest son. Just ringing. By eight I was annoyed. By nine, scared. At ten-fifteen, I called the police.
The next morning, Grant's truck was found near the marina, the empty boat trailer still attached. His wallet was inside. So were two life jackets.
The boat turned up several hours later on the opposite shore — empty, badly damaged. Search teams spent weeks combing the water with divers, boats, helicopters, volunteers walking the shoreline. They came up with nothing. No sign of Grant. No sign of the boys.
Eventually the official conclusion became the only answer anyone could give me. Boating accident. Strong current. Bodies likely carried away.
I nodded when people said it. Signed the paperwork. Went home to three daughters and four empty places at the table.
But one question never stopped scratching at me. How?
Grant was careful. Painfully careful. If the forecast looked bad, he canceled. If equipment needed repair, the trip waited. If one of the boys forgot a life jacket, Grant would have driven the whole way home before he ever launched without it.
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So how did a man like that take all three of our sons onto a lake and never bring a single one of them back?
Nobody could tell me. Marcus tried.
