In the corridor Whitney paced with her hands clenched around her phone.

“Mom says you planted all this,” she told me.

“Did she explain how I could plant our daughter inside a freezer?”

Whitney stopped pacing.

I wasn’t interested in winning an argument.

I pulled up my phone and showed her the time-stamped photographs from the garage.

Piper’s bare foot, the open lid, the discarded coat.

I stopped before scrolling to an image that showed her face.