Chapter 5

I forced myself to be calm. My mind, the analytical CSI mind, took over. "Alex," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "Look at me."

She finally lifted her head, her eyes swimming with tears.

"When did Dustin tell you this? Did he see a doctor? Is there a diagnosis? A prescription?" I asked, a rapid-fire series of questions. This was an interrogation.

Her eyes darted away. "No... no, he didn't want anyone to know. He was ashamed. He said... he said he was worried he'd disappoint you."

"Disappoint me?" I shouted, my control finally snapping. "He had a 4.0 GPA! He was the state champion! He had a full ride to Stanford! He was going to the Olympics! That's not a boy who was afraid of disappointing me! You're lying!"

I stared hard at her, trying to see past the tears. "Who got to you, Alex? Who is making you say this? Was it them?" I gestured wildly at the screen, at Bentley and Dr. Hooper.

Alex shook her head, tears streaming down her face. "No one... no one threatened me."

Then, her hand went to her pocket. She pulled out a folded piece of paper. An envelope. Her hands trembled as she opened it.

"He... he left this for me," she sobbed. "It's a suicide note."

She held it up to the camera.

The world stopped.

The note was projected on the screen. I saw my son' s familiar, messy handwriting. My heart seized in my chest.

Alex, I' m sorry. I can' t do this anymore. The pressure is too much. Tell my mom I love her, but this is the only way. The world is just too heavy.

I stared at the words, and for one terrifying, soul-crushing moment, I believed it.

Did I miss it? Was I so caught up in his success that I didn't see his pain? Was I a bad mother? The questions tore through me, a silent scream in my mind.

My hand holding the tool trembled.

And then, in the haze of my grief and confusion, my eyes snagged on the last line.

The world is just too heavy.

It was a strange phrase. It wasn' t something Dustin would say. But it was familiar. It was from his favorite childhood book, a story about a little bear who carried the moon on his back because he was afraid of the dark. We had read it together a thousand times. It was our secret code. When things were tough, one of us would say, "The moon is heavy today," and the other would know.

It wasn' t a confession. It was a signal. He was in trouble. He was being threatened.

He hadn' t been giving up. He had been crying for help.

And they had twisted his cry for help into a suicide note.