Ibegan stalking them regularly, carefully, so that no one would know what I was up to.

I would wait for Jonah at school, I would visit Missy’s grave, I went to their house at night. My lies were convincing; no one suspected a thing.  I knew it was wrong, but it didn’t seem as if I could control my actions anymore. As with any compulsion, I couldn’t stop. When I did these things, I wondered about my state of mind. Was I a masochist, who wanted to relieve the agony I’d inflicted? Or was I a sadist, someone who secretly enjoyed their torment and wanted to witness it firsthand? Was I both? I didn’t know. All I knew was that I didn’t seem to have a choice.

I could not escape the image I’d seen the first night, when Miles walked past his son without speaking to him, as if oblivious to his presence. After all that had happened, it wasn’t supposed to be that way. Yes, I knew that Missy had been taken from their lives . . . but didn’t people grow closer after a traumatic event? Didn’t they look to each other for support? Especially family?  This was what I had wanted to believe. This was how I had made it through the first six weeks. It became my mantra. They would survive. They would heal. They would turn to each other and become even closer. It was the singsong chant of a tortured fool, but it had become real in my mind.

But that night, they had not been doing okay. Not that night.  I am not naive enough now, nor was I naive enough then, to believe that a single snapshot of a family at home reveals the truth. I told myself after that night that I was mistaken in what I saw, or even if I was correct, that it didn’t mean anything. Nothing can be read into isolated instances. By the time I got to my car, I almost believed it.

But I had to make certain.

There is a path one takes when moving toward destruction. Like someone who has one drink on a Friday night, and two the next, only to gradually and completely lose control, I found myself proceeding more boldly. Two days after my nighttime visit, I needed to know about Jonah. I can still remember the train of thought I used to justify my action. It went like this: I’ll watch for Jonah today, and if he’s smiling, then I’ll know I was wrong. So I went to the school. I sat in the parking lot, a stranger sitting behind the wheel in a place I had no right to be, staring out the windshield. The first time I went, I barely caught a glimpse of him, so I returned the following day.

A few days later, I went again.

And again.

It got to the point where I recognized his teacher, his class, and I was soon able to pick him out immediately, just as he left the building. And I watched.  Sometimes he would smile, sometimes he wouldn’t, and for the rest of the afternoon, I would wonder what it meant. Either way, I was never satisfied.  And night would come. Like an itch I couldn’t reach, the compulsion to spy nagged at me, growing stronger as the hours rolled on. I would lie down, eyes wide open, then get out of bed. I’d pace back and forth. I’d sit............