I had to wake up at my own funeral to learn the thing they had already prepared everything for my absence — the tickets, the forged papers, the divided-up necklace, the story they’d tell the world once I was gone and could no longer contradict it.

I think about those women more than I think about Christopher or Delilah now.

The ones in ordinary kitchens, in ordinary marriages, who feel the small wrong thing and are told, kindly, patiently, that they imagined it.

Who notice the money that doesn’t add up and are made to feel petty for noticing.

Who catch the glance between two people and are assured they’re being paranoid, until catching glances and doubting themselves becomes so habitual they stop doing the first and only keep doing the second.

They are not in danger of a coffin, most of them.