Roman stayed by the door, giving them space. He’d been at the quarry when they pulled Caitlin out of the water, in the room when the cops questioned her, and by her side as much as she’d allowed since. For this conversation, she only wanted Scott.

By the time the invalids crossed the twenty feet to the stone bench, Caitlin smelled like a sweaty Band-Aid. She didn’t mind. She smelled alive and the view was nice. A path between two flower beds in full bloom meandered to a grove of birch trees centered on an ornate limestone cross. Singing birds mixed with the distant hum of a gardener mowing a field beyond the trees.

Canton tapped her knee. “Talk.”

Caitlin watched a flurry of green fly from the riding mower. “I killed him.”

“They say he drowned.”

She shrugged, felt a twinge of pain between her shoulder blades. “I choked him until the water took him.”

The mower finished a row, swiveled around for another pass.

Scott gave the expected response. “Self-defense.”

“I’m not worried about legal charges.” She met his eyes. “You’ve killed, Scott.” She looked over at Roman. “He’s killed. I’ve killed.”

Scott took a second, replied. “We’ve killed.”

She saw his mouth open wide in joy. “Jesus, did you just make a conjugation joke?”

He tipped his hat. “Teacher.”

Caitlin’s laughter joined his. Her many points of pain gave way to relief.

She wiped a tear away. “I’m gonna be so messed up.”

“So much more.”

She laughed again. “So much more messed up.”

The gardener finished another row, kept right on going. Nothing stopped him.

Scott reached for her hand. “Therapy?”

She took the offer, squeezed him tight. Another tear fought its way out. “You know it.”

“You talk. You friends,” he said.

“Sure. You Tarzan, me friends.”

Scott didn’t look pissed, but he put extra prep into his next sentence. “You’re not alone, smart ass.”

“No,” Caitlin admitted, tears now rolling from both eyes. “I’m not alone now.”

He let go of her hand and pointed to his chest, then to Mike Roman. “You therapy, you talk, you friends.”

“Okay, Scott. I promise. Therapy, talk, friends, I promise.”

She had him crying now. He took another hard breath. “You help.”

“I’ll help myself, Scott. I will.”

“No, help her.”

“Her?”

He nodded. “Help her, Caitlin.”

She swallowed hard. “Chapman’s already gone. She’s with her parents, not that they’re still together. The police, the doctors, they’ll help her.”

He poked her arm. “They don’t know.”

“Shit,” Caitlin said. “If they don’t know, who does?”

“You do.”

Caitlin had spent nine days in Branford’s collection. Chapman, over seven hundred. She’d suffered multiple fractures from repeated abuse and showed signs of habitual rape and constant mental reprogramming. Caitlin hadn’t seen media coverage yet but knew the world of exposure the girl would endure.