My husband’s oldest friend poured cabernet down the front of her own cream dress, stared straight at me, and whispered, “Rachel, why would you do that?” For one terrible second, half the dinner table believed her. Then my husband glanced toward his mother and said, “Mom, pull up the dining-room recording.” That was when I understood something Claire did not: he had stopped trying to keep the peace weeks ago. He had started collecting proof.
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