Chapter 4

I stood up, the locket clutched in my hand.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

Ethan's wedding reception was at a country club a few miles away.

I had to go. I had to confront Mark.

I didn't change my dress. I didn't fix my hair.

I grabbed my car keys and ran out of the house.

On the way, I called the police.

"My daughter, Emily Thompson," I said, my voice trembling but firm. "She went missing eighteen years ago. I know who took her. My husband, Mark Thompson. I think... I think he buried her under the old oak tree in our backyard."

The dispatcher sounded skeptical but took my information.

The reception was in full swing. Music, laughter, champagne.

I walked into the ballroom. All eyes turned to me.

I saw Mark standing with Ethan and Olivia, smiling, accepting congratulations.

His smile froze when he saw me.

"Sarah? What's wrong? You look..."

"Where is she, Mark?" I said, my voice cutting through the music.

The room went silent.

"What are you talking about?" Ethan asked, stepping forward, his face creased with concern.

"Emily," I said, my gaze fixed on Mark. "What did you do to Emily?"

Guests were whispering, staring.

Mark's face was pale. "Sarah, not now. Please. This is Ethan's day."

"You know what happened to her," I accused, stepping closer. "You've always known."

"Mom, please," Ethan begged. "You're not well. Let's go home."

"No!" I shook my head. "He buried her. Under the old oak tree in our backyard. I know he did!"

Shocked gasps rippled through the crowd.

Olivia, the bride, looked horrified.

My parents, Grandma Joan and Grandpa Bill, were rushing towards me from a nearby table.

"Sarah, stop this madness!" my father hissed. "You're ruining Ethan's wedding!"

"She's not well," my mother explained to the nearest guests, her voice apologetic. "She has these episodes."

Mark put his arm around Ethan. "It's okay, son. Your mother... she's just confused." He looked at me with such pity, such feigned sorrow.

"I'm not confused!" I insisted, my voice rising. "I know what you did!"

Mark shook his head sadly. "She needs her medication."

He tried to take my arm. "Come on, Sarah. Let's get you home."

I pulled away. "Don't touch me! Do you even have a conscience, Mark? After all these years?"

His composure flickered for a tiny second. Just a tiny one. But I saw it.

"Sarah, darling," my mother pleaded, her hand on my arm. "You're making a scene. Think of Ethan. Think of all we've done for you, all Mark has done for you."

"I am thinking of what he's done," I said, turning back to Mark. My voice dropped, cold and clear.

"You murdered our daughter, Mark. You murdered Emily."