They crossed the carpet toward the bed and stopped barely a foot from my face.
A pair of burgundy pumps with a thin gold strap at the ankle.
I knew those shoes. I had complimented them that very afternoon, in the bridal room before the ceremony, while their owner adjusted my veil with stiff fingers and told me I looked “surprisingly elegant.”
My mother-in-law.
Diane Hale.
She sat down on the edge of the mattress directly above me. The springs dipped. A few rose petals drifted off the duvet and landed on the carpet beside my cheek.
My smile disappeared.
I lay perfectly still, my phone pressed against my chest, its screen dimmed, still recording.
I heard the soft tap of Diane unlocking her phone. Then the burr of a call connecting on speaker.
A moment later, my husband’s voice filled the room.
