Then I saw the black phone between his palms.
Daniel’s phone. The police had returned it with his wallet and wedding ring. I had locked it in my bedroom drawer because I could not bear to hear his voicemail greeting.
Noah must have found the spare key. His knuckles were white around the case.
“Noah,” I whispered.
He looked at me, and for one painful second, I saw Daniel’s dark, steady eyes staring back.
Then my son stood.
Every face in the chapel turned toward him. Vivian’s expression tightened with annoyance.
“Sit down, sweetheart,” she said. “The adults are speaking.”
Noah did not move.
“Grandma,” he said, his voice clear enough to reach the last pew, “do you want me to play the recording Dad made about you last week?”
The color vanished from Vivian’s face. Grant uncrossed his arms.
“What recording?” he demanded.
Noah looked down at the screen. Vivian hurried toward him, but I rose and stepped between them. For the first time that morning, I looked her directly in the eyes.
