The emptiness of the apartment was not an act of rage; it was an exhibit.

I had wanted him to feel, in sequence, the exact shape of his own misjudgment — to think first that I was hysterical, then that I was petty, and to arrive, papers shaking in his hands, at the truth, which was that I was neither, and never had been, and that the woman he had left bleeding on a floor to protect a lie had turned out to be the most dangerous person he had ever underestimated.

The camera caught all of it.

I watched his face find each stage in turn.

I had built it that way on purpose.

Chapter 27 — The FBI