The catering invoices had been “client retention,” except the guest lists were his mother and his relatives.

He hadn’t controlled Greywater, except the subpoenaed records showed his cousin was a front and the money ran to an account of his.

A hacker had framed him, except the biometric login was unmistakably his.

There was no shouting in that room.

There was only the quiet turning of pages, one after another, until the pages had buried him.

“If Gabriella weren’t my wife,” he told the panel at the end, grasping, “you’d never have looked at me this hard.” The chair let me answer.