Chapter 12: The Green Strap

I did not wake him.

I did not know where he had gone, and I did not call out.

I took the envelope downstairs in his shirt and sat at the kitchen table with my mother's laptop.

Inside the envelope was a small flash drive and nothing else.

I pushed it into the side of the machine and clicked the only file.

It opened on a dark windshield.

The date in the corner was October 14th, three years ago.

The time said 11:41:58.

It was a transit bus camera, looking out through glass streaked with old rain.

A long empty stretch of road ran ahead, lit only by the headlights.

Route 9.

I knew every turn of it.

I had driven it a thousand times in my mother's old Honda, on my way to the beach.

At the crossing there was a streetlight, and it was out.

I had read that in the file.

On the screen, at 11:42, a pair of headlights came down the other side of the road, very fast, and the bus driver's brakes squealed.

A pickup truck flashed across the frame.

I saw it for one second and a half.

Something small and pale crossed in front of it, at the edge of the light.

Then the camera shook, and the truck was gone.

My mother had died on that road, and I had never seen it happen.

I pressed my hand over my mouth and played it again.

On the second pass I could see that the truck was dark, with a dented side panel and a roof rack.

On the third pass, I stopped the clip at 11:42:03.

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