Gerald faced the guests, holding his wife’s wrist so gently that no one could mistake it for anger. “For thirty-two years, I have kept a promise I should never have made,” he said. “Diane did not slip. She did it on purpose, because she has done something like it before.” A murmur rose. Ryan stepped forward, ashen. Gerald reached into his jacket and drew out a folded photograph, yellowed at the edges, and held it up for the garden to see.

It showed a young woman in a muddy wedding dress standing beside a younger Diane, the same stiff smile on her face. “This was my sister, Margaret,” Gerald said, his voice cracking. “She married the man Diane wanted. On her wedding day, Diane pushed her into a drainage ditch, and she never forgave us, and she never spoke to me again.” Diane covered her face. In the second row, an elderly woman in a lavender coat slowly rose to her feet.