I, however, watched his hands.

During our marriage, I had mapped every micro-expression, every involuntary twitch of the man who terrorized me. I knew his tells better than my own heartbeat.

Right now, his left thumb was rhythmically stroking his platinum cufflink—the exact soothing mechanism he used whenever he was lying through his teeth.

Julian stood for a remarkably brief cross-examination. He adjusted his glasses, looking almost bored.

“Mr. Mercer,” he began conversationally. “Did you violently strike your wife on the evening of March the ninth?”

“No. Never,” Evan replied, eyes wide with feigned shock.