And then the one that made Adelina’s glass stop halfway to her lips — the wire transfer, thirty-five thousand dollars, from Warner’s account to Renae Fenmore, labeled in his own tidy euphemism.

I had not put a single improper image on that screen.

I hadn’t needed to.

The paper trail of a six-month affair, laid out in order, does a deeper and more permanent damage than anything cruder ever could.

I had thought carefully about that, in the days before, and it was a deliberate choice.

There was a version of this evening that traded in shock — something lurid, something that would have made everyone gasp and look away and given Warner, later, a way to recast me as the vindictive, unhinged wife who’d done something grotesque.