“Tell me.” he says. “What color is this dress?” My stomach sinks. I stare at the photo, noticing now that there is a torn dress lying across the back seat of the car. “What?” I manage. Mancini smiles sheepishly. “I found this photo in your husband’s file, taken from the scene of the accident. And me and the guys at the department can’t stop arguing over it. I assume the dress was yours. What color is it? Is it blue and black, or is it gold and white?” My mouth is too dry to even speak. I part my lips, but no words come out. “We were just curious,” he says.
