The straight spine.
The tight mouth.
The hands folded like she was waiting for a hymn to begin.
“No,” Emily whispered.
Her mother gripped the bed rail.
Detective Ward slid one more paper from the folder.
It was a phone record, printed and highlighted.
The call was marked at 10:46 p.m.
Twenty-two minutes before the crash.
The number on the left belonged to Cole Whitaker.
The number on the right had been traced through subscriber records that morning.
Detective Ward turned the page toward Emily.
The name was Diane Mercer.
Nathan’s mother.
For a moment, Emily could not connect the words in her mind.
Diane Mercer had chosen the flowers for the rehearsal dinner.
Diane Mercer had corrected the seating chart twice.
Diane Mercer had kissed Nathan on the cheek before the ceremony and told him he looked handsome.
Diane Mercer had stood in a church hallway six months earlier and said, “I suppose if Nathan is happy, we all have to adjust.”
