They never found my son's body.

That was the first indication that something strange was going on.

Sure, they found his t-shirt, bloody and torn up, as if ravaged by a wild animal.

They found his left shoe, also splashed with blood.

But that was all.

They asked us, my wife Tabitha and I, to accept his death based on two articles

of bloody clothing. Maybe someone else, some other parent could have accepted this, but not

me. I wanted to see his body. Now, three months later, I still want to see it.

Even if it has been eaten by some animal, I won't be able to rest until I see my little

Brandon's body.

Without that knowledge, I can't keep the questions from invading my mind.

What if he wasn't really killed?

What if he was kidnapped?

And he's still alive somewhere, being abused and tortured. I need to know what really killed. What if he was kidnapped? And he's still alive somewhere, being abused and tortured.

I need to know what really happened. And the only way to do that is to find his body.

Who knows? Maybe he's still alive. Maybe. No. A seven-year-old could not survive alone in the woods.

And kids who are abducted don't live long.

I can't allow myself to hope that he's still out there somewhere, waiting.

It's the reason Tabitha isn't with me now.

She has retreated into herself, overcome with grief.

In her mind, Brandon is dead, so it doesn't matter if we recover his

body or not. She doesn't think there's any need to go looking. Not that she's ever said

...