There were the recordings, the transfers, the stolen signature caught on camera, the shell companies, the purchases, and my husband’s own voice admitting he had needed me alive only long enough to sign.

Emiliano, who had been so elegant and certain on his little platform, barely lifted his head.

When the sentence came — a long one, for everything proven against him — he wept, and told me he was sorry, and said he had loved me.

I did not answer.

The trial took months, and I attended every day of it, which surprised the people around me — my new lawyers, the therapist I had begun seeing, the few real friends who had surfaced once the truth was public.

They thought it would be re-traumatizing to sit in that room and watch the people who had tried to kill me be tried for it.