Phones had timestamps.
Money left trails.
And suddenly Nathan’s death had edges sharp enough to hold.
Detective Ward opened the folder and placed a photograph on the blanket.
Cole Whitaker stared up at Emily with hollow eyes and a bruised cheek.
The booking timestamp was printed across the bottom edge.
7:42 A.M.
Emily looked at the face of the man who had driven a truck into her marriage and felt nothing as clean as hatred.
Hatred would have required energy.
She had only shock.
“He confessed?” her mother asked.
“He confessed to being behind the wheel,” Detective Ward said. “He also gave us enough to verify that someone contacted him before the crash. We have phone records. We have surveillance stills from the reception venue. We are still building the file.”
Building the file.
Emily almost laughed.
Her husband was in a funeral home, and somewhere adults were building a file.
