Then I saw her. Cynthia’s silver car appeared on the dirt road, kicking up dust. My daughter-in-law, my son’s widow. She was driving like a madwoman. Something was wrong.

She slammed on the brakes by the lake’s edge. I dropped my teacup. It shattered. Cynthia jumped out of the car. She wore the gray dress Lewis gave her for their anniversary. She opened the trunk and pulled out the suitcase—the one I gave her when she married my son. It was heavy. She glanced around—nervous, scared, guilty.