When Andrew Roark came home after a twelve-hour electrical job, he found a thin little boy sitting beneath the maple tree in his yard. The boy lifted his head, and Andrew dropped his tool belt into the grass. It was Harry — his son, the child everyone said had drowned five years ago. But when Andrew held him, Harry whispered, “Dad, it wasn’t an accident.”

“Talk.”

Betty gave a speech that sounded practiced.

She said she was sorry.

She said she had panicked.

She said she thought Andrew was too broken after the accident to handle Harry coming back.

She said she had kept the boy safe.

Andrew listened without interrupting.

Then he asked, “What about the insurance money?”

Betty looked at Mary.

Only for a second.

But Andrew saw it.

Mary saw him see it.

“That was help,” Betty said quickly. “I was struggling with bills.”

“Convenient,” Andrew said.

Mary stepped in.

“My mother is admitting she made a terrible mistake. But you keep trying to turn this into a conspiracy.”

Andrew stood.

“Show me your phone.”

Mary’s face changed.

“What?”

“Your texts. Your call logs. Your emails. Show me.”

“That is an invasion of privacy.”

“Our son was hidden for five years.”

“Because of my mother.”

“Then prove it.”

Mary’s eyes filled with tears.

“You want me to be a monster.”

“No,” Andrew said. “I want you to tell the truth.”

Betty left a few minutes later.

Mary and Andrew stood in the kitchen alone.

“I didn’t know,” Mary whispered. “I swear I didn’t.”

Andrew wanted to believe her.

A part of him still wanted the world to go backward.

Back to before the maple tree.

Before the basement.