The Judgment Log ran the same three scenes over and over.
Clara's casserole dish lay in pieces by the front door where I had thrown it. She had fled crying, but the scent of her cooking still hung in the foyer.
I fixed on the picture she had sent Evelyn and the name she had encouraged Leo to use. Blaming her was easier than looking back at the man in the stable recording.
I stared at the broken dish, then went after her. Before I opened the door, the bell rang again.
Clara stood on the porch with tears on her face, twisting her purse strap.
“Arthur, please. Don't shut me out. I know you're hurting, but it wasn't my fault. You know I never wanted to come between you.”
I caught her by the throat and shoved her against the doorframe. She clawed at my wrist.
“You sent her the picture of
