“We’re proud of Optimal here,” Misha says pointedly. “I don’t see how that’s a problem.”

I pick my words carefully. “They’ve bought a lot of love, is all I’m saying.”

I’m worried she’ll get angry. Or maybe I’m hoping for it—a crack in her veneer. But this only seems to amuse her. “Last time I checked, that wasn’t a crime.”

“Well, that depends on who’s buying,” I say.

“The problem is that people think in black and white. They think they can have the good without the bad. But everything that’s good for one person is probably bad for someone else. Life isn’t like the Bible says it is. It isn’t a choice between good and evil. It’s about choosing which evils you can stand.”

“So you admit Optimal is evil.”

That, at least, gets her to smile. “All I’m saying is that if Optimal has made mistakes, do a few rashes here or there mean we should shut down the biggest employer in the area?”

“We’re not just talking about rashes, and you know it. We’re talking about chemicals that cause major damage. People aren’t disposable. People shouldn’t have to sacrifice their lives and their health to put food on the table.”

“Oh, Abby.” She sighs. “I envy you. It must be nice to know you’re right so much of the time.”

A knot of anger rises in my chest. “I don’t know I’m right. But I know what’s not right.”

“Do you?” She tilts her head to squint at me. “Take Frank Mitchell as an example. He makes his living selling pornography.” The way she says it, the word has about a hundred syllables.

“Pornography isn’t illegal,” I say.

She raises an eyebrow. “Fine. Sure. But let’s say he has a customer, a normal man, husband and father, who keeps a little porn stash on the sly, nothing serious. And then, let’s say, at some point he says what he’s really after are the younger girls. Much younger. And it turns out this nice, upstanding man, with his nice, upstanding family, has a fetish for schoolgirls.” She says all of this calmly, with immense self-control, as if we’re still talking about plans for the auditorium. All the hairs lift on the back of my neck. “Now let’s say Frank Mitchell sells him a magazine where the girls look much younger than they actually are. But of course they are of age. Paid professionals. The man goes home happy. If he doesn’t, the man will just go out and find the real thing.”

I am so stunned I just stare at her.

She spreads her hands. Innocent. “You see, some people would think Frank Mitchell had done a terrible thing by selling that kind of magazine. But it would still be the right thing.”

“Or,” I say, trying to keep the tremor from my voice, “he could simply call the police.”

“The man would just deny it.” Misha shrugs, as if the point is so obvious it barely needs to be stated. Then: “Should we continue the tour?”