That the moment I had gone downstairs to the couch, Victoria had stopped pretending to be drunk — had sat up, clear and cold, and taken those papers out of her bag.

A deed transfer.

She wanted the house signed over to her, wanted it in writing that night, on our wedding night, because a wife was a threat and she needed, she said, security — needed it made legal that I could never take her place.

And when he refused, she had made him a promise instead.

She told him that if he did not sign, and if he did not divorce me within six months, she would go to the police and tell them that her son had attacked her — that she would hurt herself badly enough to prove it, and let them find her that way, and let them take Julian for it.

“She’s done it before,” Julian whispered.