At the funeral home the smell of lilies was everywhere, thick and sweet, the way funeral flowers always are, as though enough of them could soften what a room like that is for.

Damon stood beside the casket in a suit that cost more than I make in a month, and he played his part flawlessly — the grieving husband, head bowed at the right moments, accepting each murmured condolence with exactly the right amount of composure.

He had always been good at appearances.

But I stood close enough to see his eyes, and his eyes were cold, and empty, and busy in a way grief is never busy.

I had never trusted him, and I had never been able to say precisely why, which had made me doubt myself for years.