All neat. All plausible. All arranged like furniture in a room no one was meant to examine too closely.
I stood up too fast, and a sharp pull ran across my lower back. I gripped the counter until it passed, then walked upstairs to our bathroom and locked the door.
The tile floor was cold even through my leggings. I sat down on it anyway and let myself cry.
Not the pretty kind. Not silent tears sliding down one cheek. I cried the humiliating, body-shaking kind, with snot and hiccuping breaths and one hand pressed to my mouth because I could not stand the idea of anyone hearing me even though I was alone.
I gave myself four minutes.
I know that because I set the timer on my phone.
At four minutes, I stood up, washed my face, and looked at myself in the mirror.
My eyes were red. My hair had come loose from its clip. My wedding ring flashed under the vanity light when I braced both hands on the sink. I looked tired. Pregnant. Hurt.
But under all that, something else came back.
I knew that look. I had seen it years ago reflected in conference room windows and dark computer screens at midnight, when a fraud case finally tipped from suspicion into proof.