There it was. The accusation I'd been sensing. The dangerous question.
"I told the police," I said calmly, "Camille canceled our dinner plans at the last minute. Said she wasn't feeling well. I assumed she went home."
"Yes, that's what you told them." Mom's voice was dangerously quiet. "But her journal entry that day says she was excited about your dinner. About reconnecting with her sister after all the 'misunderstandings' about Stefan."
My mouth went dry. Damn Camille and her pathetic journaling habit.
"People change their minds, Mom. Maybe she wrote that earlier in the day, before she started feeling unwell."
"Maybe." Mom set down her cup with deliberate care. "Or maybe something else happened. Something that drove her to that bridge. Or someone."
"Margaret!" Dad's voice was sharp
