Last night, I was sitting in the dark living room, holding a photograph Detective Morrison gave me. It was from Mark’s evidence collection — a picture of him and Tommy standing by the creek, both of them muddy and tired and determined.
I traced my finger over Mark’s face.
“You idiot,” I whispered. “You brave, stupid idiot.”
Part of me wished he’d just let it go. That he’d chosen us over some abstract idea of justice. And that he’d stayed safe, alive… and here.
But that wouldn’t have been Mark.
I used to think I’d lost him forever. That he’d been stolen from us by random chance, by a cruel twist of fate I’d never understand.
But now I know he fought for something that mattered. He fought for this town and for the children who deserved to play somewhere safe. And in the end, even
