My grandmother’s face filled the ballroom screens just as the quartet stopped playing.
For one suspended second, no one moved.
She had recorded the video in the library at Maple Hill.
I recognized the carved walnut shelves behind her and the green lamp that had always cast a warm circle across her desk.
She wore a navy blouse, her silver hair pinned neatly away from her face, and she looked directly into the camera with the steady expression she used whenever someone tried to intimidate her.
My father stared at the screen as though he were seeing a ghost.
My mother gripped the back of a chair.
Tyler turned toward the technicians near the ballroom doors.
