By the dim light on my desk, the newspaper clippings look older than they are.  Though yellowed and wrinkled, they seem strangely heavy, as if burdened with the weight of my life back then.

There are some simple truths in life, and this is one of them: Whenever someone dies young and tragically, there’s always interest in the story, especially in a small town, where everyone seems to know each other.

When Missy Ryan died, it was front-page news, and gasps were heard in kitchens

throughout New Bern when newspapers were opened the following morning. There was

a major article and three photographs: one of the accident scene and two others that showed Missy as the beautiful woman she’d been. There were two more lengthy articles in the days that followed as more information was released, and in the beginning, everyone was confident that the case would have a resolution.  A month or so after the event, another article appeared on the front page, stating that a reward had been offered by the town council for any information on the case; and with that, confidence began to fade. And as is typical of any news event, so did the interest. People around town stopped discussing it as frequently, Missy’s name came up less and less often. In time, another article appeared, this one on the third page, repeating what had been stated in the first few articles and again asking anyone in the community with information to come forward. After that, there wasn’t anything at all.

The articles had always followed the same pattern, outlining what was known for sure and laying out the facts in a simple and straightforward way: On a warm summer evening in 1986, Missy Ryan—high school sweetheart of a local sheriff and mother of one son—went out for a jog, just as it was getting dark. Two people had seen her running along Madame Moore’s Lane a few minutes after she started; each of them had been interviewed later by the highway patrol. The rest of the articles concerned the events of that night. What none of them mentioned, however, was how Miles had spent the last few hours before he finally learned what happened.

Those hours, I’m sure, were the ones that Miles would always remember, since they were the last hours of normalcy he would know. Miles blew off the driveway and the walk, just as Missy had asked, then went inside. He picked up around the kitchen, spent some time with Jonah, and finally put him to bed. Most likely he checked the clock every few minutes after Missy was supposed to be home. At first, he might have suspected that Missy had stopped to visit with someone she’d seen on her job, something she sometimes did, and he probably chided himself for imagining the worst.

The minutes turned into an hour, then became two, and Missy still hadn’t returned. By then, Miles was worried enough to place a call to Charlie. He asked him to check out the usual route Missy jogged, since Jonah was already asleep and he didn’t want to leave him alone unless he had to. Charlie said he’d be glad to do it.

An hour later—during which Miles seemed to be getting the runaround from everyone he called for updates—Charlie was at the door. He’d brought his wife, Brenda, so she could watch Jonah, and she was standing behind him, her eyes red.  “You’d better come,” Charlie said softly. “There’s been an accident.” From the expression on his face, I’m sure that Miles knew exactly what Charlie was trying to tell him. The rest of the night was a terrible blur.  What neither Miles nor Charlie knew then, and what the investigation would later reveal, was that there were no witnesses to the hit-and-run that had taken Missy’s life. Nor would anyone come forward with a confession. Over the next month, the highway patrol interviewed everyone in the area; they searched for any evidence that might provide a lead, poking through bushes, evaluating the evidence at the scene, visiting local bars and restaurants, asking if any customers had seemed intoxicated and had left around that time. In the end, the case file was thick and heavy, chronicling everything they had learned—which in the end was essentially nothing more than what Miles knew the moment he’d pushed open the door and seen Charlie standing on the porch.  Miles Ryan had become a widower at the age of thirty.