Not a denial, not an outrage, not a single word of concern for Jim or for me or for the daughter whose secret had undone him — only the architect’s disbelief that his structure had failed, the bafflement of a man whose first and only question, even at the end, was how the perfect thing he had built could possibly have let him down.

And then, because men like Julian always reach first for someone else to blame, he turned and looked at Jim.

“You,” he breathed, and the smooth voice cracked into something ugly.

“You went to them.

You spineless little—”

“He didn’t go to anyone,” I said.

I stepped out from behind him, and I let go of the shielding hand, and I looked my husband full in the face for what I understood would be nearly the last time.

Julian went still.