He had, in his hurry to fund his mother’s photographs of Paris, manufactured the single cleanest piece of evidence against himself that I could have asked for, and he had no idea he had done it.

I looked across Darcy’s office at the neat stack of signature logs, each forged approval time-stamped and traceable, and I understood that Camden had spent seven years underestimating exactly the wrong woman.

There is a bleak irony in it that I still turn over.

If Camden had simply asked me for the forty thousand — if he had come to me and said, I’ve made a mess, my mother wants this trip, I’ve spent money I shouldn’t have, help me — I might well have said yes, the way I’d said yes a hundred times before.

My whole marriage had been a series of yeses.