“That’s the one I’ve seen. The one I took from those sorority girls at the party.” He swallowed, but it sounded dry. “I don’t want to look at the rest. It’s too ugly from the outside. Uglier than I remember. I hate that she sent these to you.” His voice shook. He took a moment to collect himself. I waited, hoping he would meet my gaze. Hoping he would see my love and my compassion for him. Instead he looked down at his hands, and anger twisted his mouth. “I keep thinking, how dare she. How dare she send these to you. My wife. The mother of my children. Which is foolish. This woman stole our child. She had no conscience. No boundaries or decency. But still I think, how dare she.” He gave a shuddering sigh, and then finally, finally, he met my gaze. His eyes were shining bright with unshed tears. “God, poor Lexie. This should have been nothing but a night in college. For her especially. A wild night that maybe we’d remember with that kind of”—he paused, searching for a word or phrase—“fond horror? One of those things you can’t believe you did when you were young and dumb. I hate that these got passed around the school and hurt her so. I also hate her mother, but I’m still sorry she saw these. God, I didn’t punch that kid enough. Ansel. Adam. Whatever his name is. I should have hit him more and harder. I half want to go hit him again now, except he lost his son. I guess, on top of everything, I’m grateful. I’m grateful Robert is home.”

He wiped at his eyes, then shrugged helplessly. I saw nothing in him but sincerity and shame, but I couldn’t help wondering at the way he’d processed it all so fast. His words, the arc of his feelings—the actor in me thought that it would make a good audition piece, and then I hated myself immediately for thinking that. Trey was a litigator, smart and articulate, his brain honed by years of work to process information fast. He’d been thinking of little other than Lexie for days now. His sorrow felt genuine, and I knew him. I loved him.

Still, I couldn’t leave it be. Lexie would not let me, and I would not let him. I touched the last photo in the line. It felt cool and smooth, like nothing with a heartbeat, and yet I felt her there.

“This is the one where I . . .” I paused. “Where I have trouble.”

He didn’t look at it. He’d never seen them before, he said. And yet he did not look.