“Sure. But in combination with the inspections, it looks suspicious. It is suspicious. If regulations are as strict as you say, you had more than enough, at least to launch an audit.”

She looks away again. She’s silent for so long I start to get uncomfortable. And then, finally, just as I’m about to thank her for her time, a shock rolls through her and she begins to laugh. Little bursts of sound, like hiccups—like she’s choking on the laughter.

“Sometimes I think I went crazy,” she says, and when she finally turns in my direction I see she’s crying and I’m so shocked I can’t say anything. “Do you have any children, Ms. Williams?”

I shake my head. She gets control of herself, finally, stands up and moves to the desk. She comes back with her phone and passes it to me: on the home screen, a beautiful girl, a teenager—as dark as her mother, with the same large eyes and bone structure.

“That’s Amy,” she says. “She’s a junior in high school this year.”

“She’s pretty,” I say, after a quick look, and hand back the phone. I feel oddly resentful of her for unraveling in front of me. That’s the agreement we make with strangers, that we’ll pretend, and they’ll pretend, so we can slide away from each other quickly and with no guilt.

“She’s doing great now.” She slides the phone into the pocket of her jacket. “During the audit, I was stressed. Working all the time. Trying to keep my head above water. She was on her own a lot. Her father only has her on the weekends.” She closes her eyes and opens them again.

“I see,” I say, even though I don’t.

“She was a freshman,” she goes on. “Sneaking around, drinking, nothing crazy, but she needed attention and I wasn’t there. She spent a lot of time online, talking to people she’d never met. I didn’t know any of it, of course. I only found out…after.”

“After what?”

“One of her online friends…” Her voice breaks and she takes a breath. “He asked her to send some pictures. She did. Like I said, she wanted attention.”

The image comes to me again of a girl, calling for help, floundering in the water, her voice nearly buried by the pitch of laughter.

“The next day, the pictures were all over school. Sent through a class e-mail blast. Even her teachers got them. Even the principal. I—” But she stops, overwhelmed.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I really am. “That’s awful. Teenagers can be awful. Believe me.” I try and force everything I know, everything I’ve carried, into those two words. “But you can’t blame yourself. It wasn’t your fault.”

She looks up sharply. “I know that,” she says. “It was Colin’s fault.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Colin’s son is in school in Crossville. They play against Barrens all the time. They share friends on Facebook.”

“That’s hardly evidence of…” I trail off, unsure exactly of what she believes. That Colin pressured his son into getting pictures from Lilian’s daughter? All to keep her from pushing on his connection to Optimal? “What you’re talking about…I mean, that’s a felony. She was—what? Fifteen at the time?”