Christina had been thinking so much about this woman and her life and her choices, it was as discombobulating as seeing a glamorous movie star in the flesh. Stan Delaney walked like a man in a dream toward his wife and lifted her right off her feet. Her keys crashed to the floor. Stan cried, his hand cradling the back of his wife’s head. He cried like a man cries when he has little or no experience of crying: dry sobs that racked his body. It was the first time Christina had seen Stan Delaney, the man she wanted to convict for his wife’s murder, display even a modicum of emotion. “What in the
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