Chloe had gone very still, her eyes darting to her husband.

“Marcus,” she said, her voice climbing.

“Baby, why are the police here?

Is everything okay?”

Marcus stepped forward.

He did not scream.

He did not yell.

He simply took a manila folder from under his arm and threw it onto the floor at Chloe’s feet, and the contents spilled out across the polished terrazzo, a spray of the same photographs I had brought to the estate, the documented, undeniable proof of what she and Julian had done.