I remembered Rick—charming, professional, expensive. Jessica’s parents had spared no expense for their daughter’s wedding, and Rick Brennan was apparently the most sought-after wedding photographer in Dallas. I’d met him briefly during the reception, where he’d complimented my dress and assured me he’d captured beautiful moments of David and me dancing.

“Of course, Rick. How are you?” I kept my voice pleasant, but his tone was setting off alarm bells. This wasn’t a social call.“Ma’am, I need you to come to my studio tonight. I found something in the wedding photos. Something very strange.” He paused, and I could hear him breathing, could hear the weight of whatever he was carrying. “Please don’t say anything to your son yet. You should be the first person to see this.”

My hand stilled on the counter. The soup stopped mattering. The crossword puzzle, the comfortable evening I’d planned—all of it evaporated in the space between his words and my racing heartbeat.“What kind of something?” I asked, though part of me already knew I wouldn’t like the answer.“I can’t explain over the phone. Can you come tonight? Please, Mrs. Thompson. It’s important.”

I hung up twenty minutes later, having agreed to meet him at eight o’clock. I turned off the stove, abandoned the soup, and stood in my kitchen feeling like the floor had tilted beneath my feet. I’d survived a lot in my life—my husband’s sudden death from a heart attack when David was only twelve, the long years of single motherhood, the financial struggles of raising a boy on a teacher’s salary while trying to save for his college education. I thought I knew what fear felt like, what dread felt like, what it meant to have your world crack open and show you something ugly underneath.