“There was no accidental slip and no lost grip.

She drew her arm back before she let go of the weight.”

On the high-definition monitor, Barnaby lay four inches from Emma’s still hand, his purple felt ear soaked in orange juice from a tipped-over glass.

“Now watch what happens at nine fifteen,” Mitchell said, pressing a fast-forward button on her console.

The timestamp at the bottom of the screen jumped ahead sixty seconds.

My mother, Patricia, came through the kitchen archway from the dining room carrying a silver serving platter.