Clementine covered her mouth.
Andrew looked sick.
“That wasn’t me.”
I stared at him.
Nothing made sense.
“Whose body was in that coffin?”
He did not answer quickly enough.
I turned to Clementine.
“You knew.”
She cried harder.
“Davina, I wanted to tell you.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I couldn’t.”
“You hugged me at his funeral.”
My voice cracked.
“You looked me in the face and said, ‘I’m sorry.’”
“I was sorry.”
I laughed once, but there was no humor in it.
“For what? His death? Or what you were doing to me?”
Andrew stepped closer.
“Mom didn’t want any part of this.”
Clementine looked at him sharply.
“Don’t.”
“No,” I said. “He should talk.”
Andrew rubbed both hands over his face.
The gesture was painfully familiar.
“There was an accident 12 days before the wedding.”
“I know there was an accident.”
“What you don’t know is that I wasn’t driving the car.”
