His own love for me, years ago, had left the evidence that would end him.

There is a terrible justice in that, almost too neat to be real, except that it was real.

On the day the shower door shattered, Santiago had done a genuinely good thing, an instinctive, loving thing, throwing himself in front of the glass without a thought for himself.

That good act had marked his body permanently.

And years later, when he had become a man capable of the worst thing I know of, it was that old good act, that one true moment of love, that betrayed the lie he had built.

The best thing he ever did for me caught up with the worst thing he ever did to me, and it was the scar of his decency, not any cleverness of mine, that finally undid him.