We planned a small wedding at Willow Ridge Lodge outside Colorado Springs, where a garden terrace overlooked pine-covered hills near Fort Carson. White chairs lined the lawn, soft lights hung between wooden beams, and wildflowers decorated an arbor facing the mountains.
Emily spent weeks choosing her pale-blue junior bridesmaid dress. She practiced walking slowly with her flower basket because she worried excitement would make her scatter everything before reaching the aisle.
On the wedding morning, Vanessa complimented her dress and kissed the top of her head.
At least, that was what I saw.
Shortly before the ceremony, my sister Laura entered the preparation room and asked whether Emily had joined the wedding party outside.
I assumed she was helping the photographer, but her assigned chair was empty.
I checked the garden, kitchen, guest rooms, and upstairs hallway.
Nobody remembered seeing her leave.
Then I heard faint movement behind the laundry-room door near the lodge’s service corridor.
