I’m not giving you a theory. I’m giving you the mathematical autopsy of a violent assault.”

The judge leaned forward, captivated. “Overruled. Proceed, Doctor.”

And so I dismantled Evan’s story, piece by piece.

I matched the distinct buckle of his favorite Ferragamo belt to the twin indentations on my lower back. I correlated the heavy brass handle of the walking cane Vivian kept in the foyer to the blunt-force trauma on my shoulder blade.

I demonstrated how the crescent-shaped scar near my ribs mirrored the architectural beveling of our kitchen island.

Then Julian played the audio file.