My daughter is dead. My husband and I cling to what's left of our family, desperate to make sense of the tragedy. But when the sheriff knocks, he delivers news no mother should ever have to hear. Our daughter was murdered. And my son is the prime suspect. When we adopted eleven-year-old Holden, we weren't wearing rose-colored glasses. But we never could have imagined this. They say you can't pick your family. But I picked mine. Did I choose my daughter's murderer?