I knew that watch.

I knew it to the dollar, in fact: eighteen thousand, seven hundred, charged to a card he was quite sure I never looked at.

I looked at everything, Rowan.

That was always the thing you never understood about me.

It is a peculiar way to grieve a marriage, cataloging it — but it turned out to be the only way I could survive grieving this one.

Every message he sent that week, every gloating photograph, every note designed to make me feel small and hysterical and alone, I received in two ways at once: as a wife, who felt each one land, and as a professional, who filed it, dated it, understood its evidentiary weight.