The notebook was leather-bound and small enough to fit in a coat pocket. Eleanor brought it to me in the hotel that evening, wrapped in a scarf, and I sat on the edge of the bed and read it from cover to cover.
It was worse than I had imagined.
Julian had been keeping records for years. He had recorded every debt, every favor, every promise, every lie. He had recorded the terms of the trust, and the names of the trustees, and the exact date on which he had decided that my child could not be born. He had recorded the name of the physician who had prepared the tincture, and the amount he had paid the man, and the way he had justified it to himself, in his small, precise handwriting, as a necessary evil.
He had recorded his marriage to Eleanor, and the ways in which he had planned to use h
