“It’s Gavin,” she whispered, and every drop of color drained out of her face.

On the screen, the driver’s door opened and he stepped out, and even in the flat gray of the camera image I could see that this was not the smiling man from the wedding.

He was alone.

He was not smiling.

His jaw was set hard, and he had a thick manila folder tucked under one arm, held like a weapon he intended to use.

He walked up to the gate and pounded on it with his fist, hard enough that I heard it clearly through the walls, and bellowed my mother’s name into the quiet street.