I called 911.
Officers arrived quickly and found him near the maintenance shed. He didn’t run. He cooperated.
They brought him into a small conference room. Without his cap, he looked smaller. Thinner. His eyes were red.
“Mrs. Elana,” he said hoarsely when I walked in.
My skin crawled hearing my name in his mouth.
Noah pressed against me. “That’s Ethan’s friend,” he whispered.
I sent Noah out and faced the man.
“Why were you talking to my son?” I demanded.
He flinched. “I didn’t mean to scare him.”
“You told him to keep secrets. You used my dead child’s name.”
His shoulders sagged. “I saw him at pickup. He looks like Ethan.” His voice shook. “I got the repair job on purpose.”
The words landed like a punch.
“I can’t sleep,” he continued. “Every time I close my eyes, I’m back in the truck. I have syncope—fainting spells. I was supposed to get cleared. I didn’t. I couldn’t lose work.”
“So you drove anyway,” I said flatly.
He nodded, tears gathering. “I told myself it wouldn’t happen again.”
“And my son died.”
“Yes.”
He wiped his face. “I thought… if I could do something good. If I could tell Noah you should stop crying. Maybe I could breathe again.”
Rage steadied me.
