“Don’t question me in my own house,” he said.
My hand lifted slowly to my mouth. Blood stained my fingertips. I stared at it, then looked at him.
His smile returned when I did not scream.
That had always been his favorite part—my silence. To Caleb, silence meant fear. It meant submission. It meant he had married a polite Southern girl with manners, a pretty face, and no backbone.
He had forgotten I was raised by a judge.
He had forgotten I had spent ten years investigating corporate fraud before I ever took his last name.
And he had never discovered that for the last six months, every lie he told had been documented, copied, recorded, and stored in three different places.
Caleb turned toward the hallway mirror, adjusting his cufflinks as though he had not just struck his wife.
