Chapter 12

Her name was Margaret Whitmore. Celeste's mother. She was sixty-two, she had driven six hours, and she held a manila envelope in her lap like it was a bird. I got in the passenger seat because she wouldn't come inside. We sat in the cold with the engine off for almost a minute. "I'm not here to defend her," she finally said. "Okay." "I want that clear. I read the transcript. I heard the tape." Her chin shook once and she stopped it. "I'm here because of what's in this envelope, and because...