By five on the eve of the wedding the bridal suite at the hotel was silent, the air conditioner humming a thin stream of salt-tinged air across the floral carpet.

My small suitcase sat open on the rack, and beneath a layer of tissue paper lay the forensic accounting journals I had kept for three years.

I took the digital audio recorder out of my handbag, checked the battery, and slid it into the deep satin pocket of the bridal bag, not as a trick but as what it was, evidence I intended to hand to the people whose job it is to weigh such things.

I slipped on the simple ivory slip dress first, the silk cool against my skin, and then worked the heavy white lace gown over it, each of the small pearl buttons stiff and stubborn up my spine, until I stood before the mirror zipped tight into the heavy lace with the thin ivory beneath it, hidden completely.