The once bright yellow rocking horse seat was all that remained of the playground. Lyle was surprised the useless relic, battered and worn from use and disuse, wasn’t ripped out of the ground when the rest of the park was razed.
It was cruel if left as a backhanded memorial for the kids who disappeared, Lyle imagined demolition stopped when local interest in erasing any memories of that day waned.
He ran his hand over the stanchion, smearing the rusty powder – the color of dried blood.
Lyle knew the secret of what happened; he was the one who got away.