I had married a man, I was beginning to understand, who under pressure reached first for the lawyer and last for the truth.

And I sat with that text a long time, because it was, in its way, more revealing than the accusation itself.

The accusation could be blamed on shock — a man ambushed by a coincidence, thinking with the reptile part of his brain.

But the text came hours later, after time to breathe, to reflect, to become human again.

And in all those hours, the thing that had risen to the top of him was not doubt, not grief, not even anger.

It was strategy.