Somewhere in those hours, without any drama, the last of my grief for the marriage finished itself, and something colder and far more useful took its place.

Chapter 4 — The Performance

She was in my kitchen the next morning when I came down in my pajamas — young, immaculate, glowing, her arms wound around the man who was still, on paper, my husband.

When she saw me, she performed a little flinch of shock and shrank behind him.

“Oh — I’m so sorry.

I’m scared she’s going to be angry with me.”

Spencer’s head snapped toward me as though I were a loaded weapon.