It is a strange thing, to know in your body that a story is wrong while being unable to prove a single fact against it.

I was not a detective.

I had no evidence, no theory, nothing but the shape of a man I had loved for twenty years and the certainty that the shape did not fit the hole the officials had cut for it.

For years I doubted even myself, wondering whether I was simply a widow unable to accept a plain tragedy, dressing my denial up as intuition.

I know now that it was not denial.