My Husband, the Prosecutor

I'd been married to Aiden Halloran for five years.

He was a federal prosecutor. He was at his desk by 7:30, home by 7, and his collar buttoned at the throat under a navy DOJ-issue tie no matter the weather.

I worked nights on a tor-only fixer board called Atelier. Handle: K. The job was simple. People paid me to make things they didn't want to exist stop existing.

This time I was helping a battered woman scrub the digital trail off a kitchen-floor self-defense killing.

I thought I'd been clean.

Then Aiden came home at one in the morning and slid a Bates-stamped manila envelope across our kitchen island.

Suspect: Sokolov, Lena.

Charging AUSA: Halloran, Aiden M.

He pressed my MacBook open with two fingers and said, in the voice he used at sentencing,

"K. You want to save her, or save yourself?"