I had all of it — every minute the house had recorded, including the parts no one should ever have to watch, least of all in a room full of the people whose good opinion had been my wife’s whole social world.

And some hard part of me had wanted to play all of it, to make my mother and brother stand there while the entire network watched exactly what they had done, to leave them no dignity at all.

But that impulse, I realized, was about my rage, not Ingrid’s healing — and playing the worst of it would have exposed her, would have made her the object of a room’s horrified pity, would have taken the private violation done to her body and made it a public spectacle.

I would have been protecting my need for their humiliation at the cost of her privacy.

So I played the minimum.

Enough to prove the crime beyond any argument, and not one second more.