“For Camille.”
It was in Atlas’s handwriting.
My knees weakened. “What is this?”
“Why would I be angry?”
“He said you had to watch it at home. He said you’d understand everything.”
“Who brought you here, sweetheart?”
Matilda glanced toward the rainy parking lot.
I followed her eyes and saw Morgan standing under a black umbrella, one hand pressed over her mouth.
My best friend. The woman who had sat beside me in the front row and held my hand while they carried Atlas in.
The woman who, apparently, knew exactly why a child had come to my husband’s funeral with a tape.
“Morgan?” I whispered.
“He said you’d understand everything.”
Matilda’s voice shook. “Please don’t be mad at her. Mr. Atlas asked her.”
Read more on the next page…
