I think about death a lot; it’s my job. Specifically, I think about how death happens. About the truth of it, or the lie. About when you can be absolutely certain, and when the edges are blurred, and what gets lost to memory or misunderstanding.

I think about my job, which is to take the facts of a case and arrange them into a story – without elaborating or exaggerating – and how that story must convince the jury to believe my version of events. I am very convincing. I tell a good story.

But I have to think hard about where to start with this story, because the beginning isn’t the accident, even though it seemed that way to me. The wolf was already at my heels, planning his next move as I walked, oblivious, through the forest.

He had waited for a long time, and now he was ready.