In the back corner near a window covered in ivy, I saw a thin man sitting with his back to me, and when he turned around my breath stopped.
He was thinner than before, with dark circles under his eyes and a faint scar across his forehead, yet his eyes were unmistakably my son’s.
“Mom,” he said softly as he stood.
I rushed into his arms and felt solid warmth, not air, and I cried harder than I had even at his memorial service.
“Where have you been, and why did you let me believe you were gone,” I asked between sobs.
He closed his eyes briefly and said, “I could not come back sooner, and I need you to tell me exactly what Vanessa said about the night I died.”
I repeated the story Vanessa had told me for two years about a party on a yacht, too much alcohol, and Logan slipping overboard while she screamed for help.
He clenched his fists and said, “That is not what happened.”
He leaned closer and whispered, “I overheard her on the phone that night talking about an insurance policy and about how your heart was weak enough that no one would question a sudden heart attack.”
I felt the room tilt and asked, “You think she planned to kill me.”