He came down the centre aisle with her on his arm, past the lilies and the candles and the people crying into folded programmes, and he did not look broken. He looked relieved. Imogen had spent years being described as small and naive by a man who told her she would crawl back to nothing without him, and everyone in that church knew only the version of her he found convenient. The teacher. The cardigans. The little online shop.

The shop had become a digital education company worth sixty two million dollars, and he had never once asked enough questions to find out. But the money was not the dangerous part. She knew about the affair, the falsified invoices, the gambling debts. And in her last months she worked out that the disease was being helped along.

The screen came on during the service and her recorded voice said there was something he had forgotten to bury.

What played was eleven minutes, assembled by her attorney under sealed instruction. Her own voice, calm, naming the dates. Then the pharmacy records, the toxicology from the private panel she ordered herself in February, and a copy of the exhumation authorisation she had pre-signed and paid for. She did not accuse him on that screen. She simply said, looking straight into the camera, that if she was right, the evidence was already with the county and would be opened whether or not anyone in that room wanted it opened.

She was right. He is serving thirty one years to life.

The company went into the trust she built. It funds two hundred and forty scholarships a year for teachers returning to study, and it is run by Delphine Okoro, who taught in the classroom next to hers for nine years.

The mistress testified. She had not known, and I believe that, and Imogen had believed it too, which is why the video never named her.

Every day of that marriage she was told she was nothing without him. She spent her last months making certain that the world would finally look directly at her, and it did, and it has not stopped looking since.