“It’s disgusting, the way people are talking about this, enjoying it. Vultures. People are dead, worse than dead—” He shook his head like he was trying to unsee something more terrible than I could imagine.

“That’s not why I’m—”

His face tight with anger, he jabbed a finger at me. “You ought to know—they did the same thing to you, calling you an art thief, a liar, an embezzler—”

“Stop yelling at me!” I picked up a sofa cushion, holding it like a shield against my stomach. My heart was pounding harder than it had the night we’d fled to the police station. Michael and I didn’t fight, not like this. How could I explain with him looking at me like I was someone he hated?

He gripped the back of the sofa. “Speculating, joking and blaming and picking your life apart like you weren’t a real person at all. And now you’re reading the same shit about me? I thought you were better than this. I thought I could trust you—”

“You can trust me. But you’re not talking to me.”

“I want to move past this, but it keeps going on and on.” He turned away, his shoulders slumping. “I told the police everything I know, I told you everything, I let them search our home, tear up our garden, and it just keeps dragging on. And now this.”

Michael had never accused me of anything, not even when I’d looked guilty. This wasn’t like him. “I know.” I walked around the sofa and laid a hand on his back. “You did everything right; you did.” But he hadn’t told me everything. That wasn’t true at all.

“If I had realized sooner—” He shrugged off my hand and faced me. I could see how deep the lines between his brows had gotten, how bloodshot his eyes had become. I reached up to touch his cheek, but he stepped out of range.

“You couldn’t have realized earlier—he’s a predator. He was camouflaged.” Aimee had already taught me that a friendly face could hide a sociopath. Had Michael thought I was the only one who could be fooled?

“And now you’re looking at that trash …”

“Not because I enjoy it. I’m trying—”

“I told you what happened.” From down the hallway, I heard Grace’s tentative cry, sleepy and confused. Not now. Not now. Go back to sleep.

“You told me some of what happened.” I regretted the words even as I uttered them.

“What do you want from me? If I don’t tell you everything, every gory detail, you’re going to think I did it?”

Grace’s wailing was gathering strength, but I said, “You’re not talking to me, you’re not talking to a therapist, you need help.”