Charming. Polished. Ambitious. Generous with waitstaff. Good with names. He remembered birthdays, donated to scholarship funds, and shook hands with both of his own. He wore expensive suits and never looked rumpled. When he first met me, he brought a bouquet too tasteful to be accidental and asked intelligent questions about my years on the bench without ever sounding intimidated by them.
That should have worried me more than it did.
The most dangerous people are rarely the loudest in the room. They are the ones who have practiced being agreeable until it becomes camouflage.
Natalie married him at thirty-four.
She was thirty-eight now.
In four years, Adrian had managed something I once would have called impossible: he had made my daughter doubt the evidence of her own mind.
He did it gradually, the way termites work.
Nothing dramatic at first. Just a thousand tiny edits to reality.