Not in life.

In a photograph — a security-camera still, attached to an anonymous cybercrime report that my attorney had filed on my behalf, a grainy image of a hand at a keyboard in a place that hand should not have been.

I had looked at that grainy hand for a long time without being able to place it.

And now here it was, on my sister’s thumb, wrapped around a wine glass in my parents’ living room, telling me the whole truth at once.

I said nothing.

I smiled, and I let her finish her wine, and I let her drive away believing she had come to gloat over a defeated woman.