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this to these people at this unholy hour. On our way back to town, while I was beating myself up, convinced that I was seeing Jenna’s skeleton in those roots, she’d told me to wait on the official ID, that until it came back I had no rock-solid proof that the remains were even Jenna’s, and that to inform the Luckmans they were, without the forensic confirmation, was arrogant at best and downright insensitive at worst.
    But something inside me feels a connection. I can’t ignore it.
    Ned is unmoving, hypnotized by the image and petrified by my words.
    Things could have played out very differently.
    I imagine sitting here under changed circumstances. Sharing anecdotes over whisky with my jolly father-in-law. Showing interest in his carpentry projects while we set the world to right. It’s how we bond. The lighthearted conversation between Nancy and my wife wanders through from the kitchen, riding on the back of delicious cooking smells. They could be sisters, happy hens clucking over their brood. Farther still, the joyous squeals of mischievous children can be heard in the yard as they chase the dog with a hose, slipping and sliding on the soft summer grass. Then Jenna appears in the doorway, radiant as ever, and my heart quakes. This is what happiness feels like. And I have no right feeling it.
    “Are they sure it’s her, Jake?”
    The killer question. I feel my cheeks flush. “My understanding is they’ll need to run tests. Confirm the ID, for sure.”
    “But they do think it’s her, right?”
    “They didn’t say outright. But I’m convinced.”
    “Sweet Jesus,” he breathes.
    I avoid mentioning anything about DNA sampling, crosschecks, the Luckmans being exposed to difficult questions, maybe from the media, definitely the opening up of old wounds, another agonizing funeral, the whole cartwheeling circus coming back to town.
    He hands back the phone, as though it’s contaminated with something deadly. “Her disappearance hit us hard. But we were hopeful, in the early days, you know? The lack of a body kept it from being real. Stopped it from being final. We thought she’d turn up someday alive, out of the blue. But she never did. I guess deep down we always knew this day might come. But it doesn’t make it any less shocking when it does.” He lets out a long, tremulous sigh and rubs shaky hands over his grizzled chin.
    There are a lot of unspoken words in that breath. A mouthful of should-haves and didn’t-dos . I’ve had plenty of my own, swallowed them down or spat them out against unsympathetic walls.
    I reach out and touch his arm. “Ned, I’m sorry.”
    “Ah, forget about it, Jake; it’s not your fault. Sure, things have been difficult. No parent should lose their child, you know? But you get used to the loss after a while. Of course, you never really move on. You just learn to live with it. God knows there are people suffering far worse in the world than us.” He closes his eyes and drains the rest of the whisky.
    Ned Luckman is a good man and I feel for him. I’m unsure if he’s drowning his sorrows or celebrating their conclusion. His whole outlook on life changed with the disappearance of his daughter. He’s spent years in limbo, holding a candle. My news has poured ice water on that flame. It doesn’t bring closure, I realize; it removes his purpose.
    He reaches for a framed photograph on a side table and brings it into his lap, nursing it.
    I catch a glimpse of a blonde-haired girl wearing a Harper Bobcats jersey. In her hands are blue-and-white cheerleader pompoms , with the half-filled bleachers of Harper High ascending in the background behind her. Players practicing. There’s a big grin lighting up her face. She is full of life and the focus of every male eye in the stadium. No idea of her fate and what was to come less than a month later.
    Ned sees me looking and hands me the picture. “Go ahead.”
    I hesitate before taking it fully. He pushes it into my grasp. This is the