A warning about content, this show contains descriptions of violence, listener discretion is advised.

There's always a risk in anything you do, like getting in the car and driving, you know?

When we started making this podcast, Paulette drove us out to see McKay's grave.

This road was not four lane. You know, it was very wooded and, you know, it was two lane.

But things change.

We pulled into the cemetery, a flat green expanse, peppered with trees,

graves stretching out as far as the eye can see.

This is what's bizarre to me.

We were one first ones out here.

Now, it's covered in graves.

So much has changed in the 28 years since McKay was buried here in 1995.

Conroe has gone from an idyllic town where safety was assumed and kids roamed free, to a crowded

city of 100,000, where McKay's story has largely been forgotten.

You're saying when you moved here,

you knew everyone, when you go into a restaurant.

And now I know everybody in the graveyard.

McKay's headstone is a black marble cross.

And there's a little foot thing that says how about those lions

a memorial to the last words he spoke to his father before he was abducted.

Twelve-year-old McKay's sheepish way of saying,

I love you.

He calls buried here and McKay's buried here. Such as life, right?

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