What Grandma Put in the Bottles. Emma Knew the Truth.

A quiet click.

Barely audible beneath the organ music.

Yet somehow, that tiny sound tore through me more violently than the screams that had filled our house three days earlier.

I sat in the first pew of St.

Matthew’s Church with my hands folded so tightly in my lap that my fingernails had cut crescents into my palms.

To my left sat my husband, Trevor.

To my right sat my four-year-old daughter, Emma.

Between us, on the altar, were two tiny white coffins.