Baby detergent.
Blue socks for Oliver.
I pressed my hand over my mouth.
My grandson would never wear those socks. Emma would never carry him through that front door.
The future she had been preparing for had disappeared.
About twenty minutes later, Evan arrived.
He stopped when he saw me standing in the kitchen.
“What are you doing here?”
I turned toward him.
“I came to collect a few of Emma’s belongings.”
His expression immediately became guarded.
“You should have called first.”
“Why?”
“Because this is my house.”
I looked at him.
“Emma lived here too.”
He sighed.
“Margaret, please don’t start an argument.”
I explained that I only wanted some photographs and personal keepsakes. Mr. Halden had advised me to arrange the collection properly.
Evan glanced toward the hallway.
“Fine. But don’t take anything valuable.”
I stared at him.
“Valuable?”
He shrugged as though his words were perfectly reasonable.
I thought about Emma’s photographs, her handwritten notes, and the little blanket she had been knitting for Oliver.
Those were the things I wanted to preserve.
But Evan was already thinking about possessions and money.
I asked him a question.
“Did Emma ever tell you she was thinking about leaving?”
His expression shifted.
“What are you talking about?”
“Did she tell you she wanted to end the marriage?”
He gave a dismissive laugh.
“Emma was emotional. Pregnancy can make women say things they don’t mean.”
My hands tightened.
“She wasn’t imagining your relationship with Celeste.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Celeste and I are none of your concern.”
“Emma was my daughter. What happened to her was absolutely my concern.”
He stepped closer.
“You need to understand that Emma and I were married. Whatever happened between us was private.”
I nodded slowly.
“Then why did you bring Celeste to her funeral?”
His mouth tightened, but he offered no response.
As I prepared to leave, I noticed a framed photograph on the hallway table. It showed Emma and me at the beach when she was eleven. Her hair was blowing across her face, and she was laughing.
I reached for it.
“Leave that,” Evan said sharply.
I stopped.
“Why? It’s a photograph of my daughter and me.”
“It belongs in this house.”
I looked at him in disbelief. Then I carefully put it back.
Not because I accepted his claim, but because I refused to give him an opportunity to turn the situation against me.
I left without another word.
Three days later, Detective Whitcomb called.
“Mrs. Ellis, we have an update on the investigation.”
I sat down immediately.
She explained that investigators had examined additional information from the crash scene and Emma’s vehicle. They had found no evidence that another car had struck hers, but an inspection had revealed a problem involving one of the tires.
The tire appeared to have been damaged before the final impact.
Specialists were working to establish when and how that damage had occurred.
I struggled to speak.
“Are you suggesting someone deliberately damaged her car?”
“We haven’t reached that conclusion yet,” she replied carefully. “But we have reason to investigate whether the damage was accidental or intentional.”
I whispered my daughter’s name.
“Oh, Emma.”
The detective’s voice softened.
“I understand how difficult this is.”
I asked whether Evan knew about the investigation. She explained that the police were speaking with everyone who might possess relevant information.
Then she asked whether Emma had ever mentioned being frightened of anyone.
I thought about the letter, the suspicious document, the argument, and the voicemail.
Suddenly, another memory returned.
