Dorothy did not look away from her until the woman took a seat in the last pew and folded her hands in her lap with the poise of someone attending a performance she expected to enjoy.
After the service, the fellowship hall filled with casseroles and grief and the repetitive mercy of people who did not know what else to say.
Jolene Marsh found Dorothy near the coffee urns.
Jolene had been Colleen’s best friend since seventh grade. Freckled, sharp-eyed, loyal to the point of recklessness. She looked as if she had aged ten years in three days.
“Dot,” she said, gripping Dorothy’s forearm, “I need to tell you something.”
Dorothy looked at her.
“About eight weeks ago, Colleen called me late at night. She sounded strange. Scared, maybe. She told me if anything ever happened to her during the birth, I should tell you to check the nursery closet. Behind the baby blankets.”
Dorothy did not react visibly.
“Did she say why?” Dorothy asked.
Jolene shook her head. “No. I thought she was just overwhelmed. I laughed and told her to stop watching crime shows. She didn’t laugh back.”