Everyone at the ceremony is standing at their seats, staring at the projector hanging from the wooden archway where Graham and I are meant to say “I do” in less than an hour.

Doug and Reed blend right in with them once we reach the crowd, standing and staring like they are completely overcome by what they are seeing.

“What’s going—” Cheryl and Graham approach and stop short behind us, their eyes darting toward the screen.

First, a photo of teenage me and Ruthie and Catherine and Annie smiling, giddy, in the forest on our way from the car to the property. Catherine’s brother yelled at Ruthie for taking it—claiming the flash would be the thing that got us caught. Then a photo of Catherine and Annie, their faces pressed so hard against each other. A photo of the party crowd, the hay floor, the red painted barn, the orange Gatorade cooler. A photo of Catherine’s brother and Reed and Graham, holding their red cups, looking toward us, toward the camera, ambush predators scoping out their prey.

“I thought we should include some photos from the night I met you,” I say, softly, pointedly, at Reed. “Here. At your house. At that party.”

A photo of me and Catherine dancing with a few unrecognizable strangers.

“What are you talking about, babe?” Graham asks, stepping toward me. He reaches his hand out for my waist, but I pull away before he can get it. I don’t want to be touched right now.

“You know the one,” I say to Graham before turning my attention back to my prime target. To Reed. “In the big red barn. The night you killed Ruthie.”

He is impossibly still then, they all are. It seems like the entire state of Vermont might have stopped moving with the Earth’s orbit. Like everyone is holding in their last remaining breath.

I could hear Sarah and Rufus approaching, Rufus’s camera already ticking away.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” I shake my head like a silly girl who forgot to buy the eggs on her shopping list. “We called her Ruthie at school. At Covenant University. We used different names there. Saint names. Some Evangelical controlling bullshit.” I glance behind Reed at Chastain and Gerwig and Bregg, moving into the center aisle. Maybe they recognize me now. “I think you know her as Bernadette.”

After an impossibly long silence, Reed takes a step toward me like he might reach for my neck but then stops himself when he remembers we have witnesses. Approximately three hundred and fifty of them, if my seating chart is correct. Two of whom were from the New York Times.