He was staring at the window and I followed his gaze. We saw Regina at the edge of our vacant lot, saw her look up at Frank’s car in the driveway and break into a run for the house.

“Frank, you could have told me this before. Why do you feel you have to carry something like this alone?”

“I told you once what I came from. I was raised in a cesspool and I want to keep you out of it. You and Regina.”

“But, darling, you’re not them.”

His voice broke. “I don’t know what I’d do if you ever left me.”

“Frank, there’s no reason to leave you.”

“Promise me.”

“Of course I promise.”

“And promise you’ll help me keep Vivian and the rest of them away from us.”

“They can’t hurt us.”

“Promise me: don’t ever let them in this house or near Regina.”

I nodded.

She came through the kitchen and dining room, squealing, “Daddy, Daddy,” and jumped into his lap. Her hands fisted against his chest, she scowled and said, “Don’t go away anymore!”

Gently, he pulled her head onto his shoulder and stroked her hair. “I won’t, pumpkin, not without you.”

But she was not reassured. Even as she clung to him and accepted his stroking, her scowl remained.

I think that if we could recall a nightmare in its entirety, we would find that the real horror of it lies somewhere in the middle, when you can’t remember the beginning, which got you to where you are, and you can’t foresee any logical end to it. Looking back now, I can only guess where our nightmare had its beginnings. I say this because it proceeded slowly and I had no feeling of momen­tum until very nearly the end. That momentum became apparent when Regina entered high school at fifteen and it continued to build for two years, growing into a monstrous inevitability which I would have to face with a gun in my hand.