By Saturday afternoon, she was gone.
Mom’s account never changed. Hannah had twisted her ankle that morning, so they remained behind while the others began the trail. Mom stepped away for less than a minute to answer a call from Moira.
When she turned back around, Hannah had disappeared.
“They found anything?” I asked Dad that night.
He wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“Not yet.”
Over the next year, Dad became the grieving father everyone admired. He also told anyone who asked that Hannah had been emotional and might have run away.
Mom faded into a shadow.
And I became the brother who should have been there.
That morning, Dad stood behind the pulpit speaking about unanswered prayers.
Mom sat beside me holding that worn Bible tightly against her chest.
“We must trust the Lord,” Dad said, “even when our hearts are broken.”
Dad never needed to raise his voice. He always made everyone else feel responsible.
I leaned toward Mom.
“He makes it sound rehearsed.”
“Your father is trying to help people,” she whispered.
“By turning Hannah into a sermon?”
“Not here, Hayden.”
When we got home, she went directly to the kitchen table and placed the Bible in front of her.
I stood in the doorway.
“You never put that thing down.”
“It comforts me.”
“Does it? Because you look scared, Mom. Not comforted.”
Fear crossed her face.
“Grief is exhausting,” she said.
“So is lying.”
She froze.
“What did you say?”
“I said I should’ve been there.”
“That isn’t what you said.”
“If I’d gone, Hannah wouldn’t have been alone. I would’ve stayed with her.”
Mom stood too quickly.
“Stop doing this to yourself.”
“How?” My voice cracked. “Her room still looks like she might come home.”
Mom opened her mouth.
Then her knees gave out.
I caught her before she reached the floor.
“Mom!”
“I’m fine,” she whispered.
“You’re not fine.”
“Medicine,” she said. “Upstairs. Nightstand.”
“I’m calling Dad.”
“No.”
Her hand gripped my wrist.
“Get my medicine. And my Bible. The one on my nightstand.”
That was when I realized there was something upstairs she didn’t want me to find.
The hospital said Mom was exhausted and severely dehydrated.
Before I left her room, she grabbed my wrist.
“Bring the Bible from my nightstand.”
The small purse Bible was public.
The nightstand Bible was protected.
“Please, Hayden. The one by my bed.”
Dad still wasn’t answering his phone. For once, I appreciated that.
I drove home, climbed the stairs, and picked up the Bible. It felt wrong before I even dropped it. Too light. Too empty.
When it struck the floor, the cover opened.
A photograph slid out, followed by letters, money, a church envelope, Hannah’s note, and an address hidden inside the binding.
I read the note once.
Then I called 911.
When I returned to the hospital, a deputy stood outside Mom’s room. I walked past him carrying the hollow Bible under my arm.
Mom saw it and turned pale.
“Hayden.”
“Tell me she’s dead.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Please don’t say that.”
“Tell me she’s dead, Mom.”
“No,” she whispered.
I gripped the bed rail.
“She’s alive?”
Mom covered her face.
“I had to protect her.”
“And yourself,” I said.
