I turned my back on her and swept my gaze across the packed sanctuary.

I looked at the horrified mourners, at the fiercely whispering board members, and finally at the tall man standing inconspicuously near the rear baptismal font in a heavy dark coat.

Detective Miller.

“While Evan was busy giving tear-soaked interviews to the evening news about losing the great love of his life,” I addressed the room, “I was sitting in the office of a forensic digital analyst.

While Celeste was posting black-and-white, melancholic photos on social media with vapid captions about the fragility of life, I was handing over my daughter’s hidden secondary phone.”

Evan surged forward, but Celeste threw an arm across his chest, her eyes wide with panic.

“My daughter,” I continued, my voice rising, vibrating with righteous fury, “documented absolutely everything.