The garage door is opening before I even press the Genie. I get out of the car and George almost runs out to greet me. “Hello, Janelle,” he says. “Let me get your bags for you.”

“There’s only one.”

“Where’s Shanice?” he asks.

“She disappeared,” I say. “Can’t you see that?” I walk past him into the kitchen, letting the door slam in his face.

“Seriously,” I hear him say as he comes through the door.

“She’s somewhere she’ll be safe.”

“Actually, she’ll be safe here from now on.”

“Spare me, would you, George.” This place is a mess. Soiled dishes piled in the sink. Something sticky’s on the floor. Juice containers and a few empty wine bottles are all littering the counter. Two uneaten Marie Callender’s veal and beef TV dinners sit on top of the microwave. Pots are on the stove. It stinks in here: like day-old broccoli. He disgusts me.

I walk into the dining room, and there, in the middle of the table, is probably the largest bouquet of spring flowers I’ve ever seen in my entire life. I hear him enter the room. Feel him standing behind me. When I turn to face him I realize that George is not handsome at all. I don’t know when it was that I thought he was. And he’s old. He looks much older than fifty-one. Now I see why people often mistake him for my father. But right now he just looks pitiful. Like a puppy. But I don’t feel sorry for him one bit, because he is not a puppy. He is the man who molested my daughter.

“I start counseling tomorrow,” he says.

“What did you say?”

“Counseling. For my behavior. To stop it. So it never happens again. I didn’t mean to do what I’ve done, and I never really actually did anything to her, if that matters.”

I feel like I need Mama’s inhaler. “Are you packed?”

“I can’t leave here,” he says.

“You’ll have to when I report this,” I say.

“Please, don’t, Janelle. I’m begging you not to, please. It could destroy everything. The life I’ve worked so hard to build.”

“You should’ve thought about that before you started going into my daughter’s room at night.”

“I did think about it.”

“Oh, you thought about it, and your brain gave you the go-ahead, is that it?”

“No. I mean, I wasn’t thinking when I did it. That’s the whole problem.”

“You think okay on your job and you carry a fucking gun. You don’t seem to have any difficulty making decisions out there, do you? I mean, you’ve never shot anybody because you were overwhelmed by the fucking moment, have you?”

“I suppose not.”

“What in the world would compel you to do something like this in the first place?”

“I don’t know.”

“And then keep doing it?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Think about it for a minute! If you don’t know, who the hell does?”

“I guess I wanted her to like me.”