He looked thinner, his hair cut short, wearing a gray suit that looked too big for him.

He didn’t look like the charming man I had married.

He looked like a stranger.

The prosecutor, a sharp woman named Assistant State Attorney Vance, began her opening statement.

She spoke of betrayal, of greed, and of physical violence.

She showed the jury the photographs of my burns from the night of the fire.

I kept my eyes on my hands, tracing the smooth skin of my palms.

When it was my turn to testify, the walk to the witness stand felt endless.

The wood of the Bible was cool under my hand as I took the oath.

“State your name for the record,” the clerk said.

“Elena Vance,” I said, my voice echoing in the quiet room.

Marisol sat at the front row of the gallery, nodding slowly.

Attorney Vance walked toward me, holding a folder.

“Elena, tell us about the night of October twelfth,” she said.

I looked at the jury.

They were twelve ordinary people, watching me closely.

“We had an argument about the condo,” I said.