Dolores was fifty-eight, a retired insurance agent with a helmet of stiff, blonde hair and a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes—a smile that she wore like armor. She was dressed in a floor-length gown of severe black, a choice that had been my first warning sign that morning, though I had foolishly chosen to ignore it in the haze of bridal joy.

She held the microphone with a proprietary grip, her eyes locked on mine.

“I’d like to say a few words about my son,” she had announced moments ago, interrupting the gentle hum of conversation.