Secrets don’t stay buried forever. Could an eighty-year-old widow help solve a fifty-five-year-old missing persons case? That’s the question the cold-case detective asks when he shows up at my door one night. I go without argument, taking one last look at the wedding photograph on my mantel, trying not to think about the other one hidden in my hope chest. As I sit in the back of the police car, I rub the right-hand ring I got for our fiftieth wedding anniversary. The one with the birthstones of our two children and four grandchildren. The most important people in our lives who know nothing about what happened fifty-five years ago. Faced with what I’ve done, and tired of running, I do my best to explain to the police how my worst nightmare turned into the kind of once-in-a-lifetime-love songs and stories are written about. I agree to talk to them on my terms - and this is my confession.