The events Trey had recounted were more than enough to send a vulnerable girl—one already prone to self-medication and away for the first time from the sharp judgment and rigid rules of a difficult mother—into a spiral that would end in addiction and prison time. The story confirmed that Spence was exactly the asshole that Marshall had known. So Lexie’s history could have played out that way. Bree clearly believed it.

But deep in the logical left side of his brain, the chilly piece that housed his inner cop was calling bullshit. The tale left Trey’s hands too clean. Trey, who was a good guy, came off as absolutely the goodest guy humanly possible, given the circumstances.

The drugs, the threesome, none of these things had been Trey’s idea. He’d been tempted and pulled in, like some dewy maiden being coaxed inch by inch off her unicorn. In Trey’s version the deepest moral blame belonged to Adam, the guy that Trey liked the least. Spence, who was dead, got thrown a little ways under a bus, too, for pushing and orchestrating. Lexie came off sympathetic, which made Trey sympathetic for presenting her that way, but still, she’d instigated the whole night and brought the drugs. And yet Trey was such a good guy in this tale that he didn’t point a judgey finger at her. Instead he’d done some straight-up hero work. First punching Adam, who had dearly needed punching, then burning the pictures, seeking out Lexie, giving her the money.

The more Marshall thought about the story, the more it curdled in his guts. If a perp had tried to float this fairy tale by him in a small gray room?

Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.

But then Trey was not some perp. Trey was, by any measure, a decent person. He had his faults, like anyone. Impatient at times. Definitely used to getting his way. But he was a loving dad and a faithful husband, generous with friends and charities. An excellent employer, fair and good-humored. So yeah. There was all that.

What if the story, then, was simply . . . mostly true?

The mind revises, Marshall knew. He’d always believe a fingerprint over an eyewitness. As time passed, events became mutable. People justified their actions, and the more shame they felt about a memory, the more they chewed it over, fretting and defending and editing, until they could live with it. Trey’s very decency made him more apt to reframe a story like the one he’d told Bree. At least a little.

Or a lot. Or maybe Marshall only thought that because he was so stupid in love with Trey’s wife.