Victor had owed money — old gambling debts — and Ryan had offered to make the debts vanish if Victor would help arrange the images that made it look as though Lucy were betraying me.

Every thread I pulled led back to the same two people, and to the same ugly truth underneath, which I made myself say plainly to my own reflection more than once: that Maya and Ryan had built the lie, yes, but that their lie had needed my ego to carry it, my jealousy to give it weight, and my refusal to listen to run it home.

They had supplied the poison.

I had been the one who drank it and thanked them.