But part of me didn’t trust those wheels. And even if anything came of my parents’ attempts to hold him accountable, it would arrive in the form of legal papers, a phone call. Something that would give him plenty of time to put on a brave face, lie his way through it.

I wanted to see the fear flicker in his eyes.

“I know,” I hissed. “What you did to Solomon.”

“Solomon has a serious mental illness,” he said, shaking his head in false sadness. “And you’re not helping him if you indulge these persecution fantasies—”

“I saw you,” I said. “The day I fell from your treehouse. I saw you sexually assault him.”

His face went blank for just a fraction of a second. His eyes twitched. If any fear flickered there, it was only for a split second. And then—he laughed.

“And you’ve known all this time? Or, let me guess, you’ve suddenly regained your memories?” He laughed again, and I stopped myself from twisting his wrist and elbow and breaking his arm. “I don’t doubt that you believe what you’re saying. You’re worried about your friend, and your brain has manufactured a narrative that—”

“It’s not manufactured,” I said. “And there will be a reckoning.”

More laughter; more barely stifled urge to shatter his bones. “Oh, my dear. You have been watching too many movies. Nobody who knows me would ever believe whatever story you’ve concocted,” he said. “And everyone in this town knows me.”

I opened my mouth, but no words came. Nausea closed up my throat. I’d been an idiot, to believe I could break him with a weapon as flimsy as the truth. He had confidence, arrogance, a mighty armor made of toxic masculinity.

I felt sick; I felt helpless. I’d imagined I could destroy him, but I’d misjudged where his power came from. How deep his sickness ran.

He let me stand there, sputtering for something to say. Enjoying the sight of how angry I was, how impotent.

And then, a door creaked open, behind me.

“Hey, Dad,” Connor said.

Mr. Barrett’s jaw dropped. This time, I saw the fear in his eyes. Real fear: raw and thick. I could smell it. The scent of guilt, of shame.

“You told him that we know,” Connor said to me.

Mr. Barrett took a step forward. “Connor, you understand this is nonsense,” he said, but I could hear his confidence deflating fast.

“You said no one would believe me,” I interrupted his pleading. “But Connor does. Connor knows. Everything.”

Mr. Barrett’s eyes went wider than I’d ever seen them. His face tightened, then crumpled. I could see the struggle in his face over how to respond—to trivialize, to threaten, to humiliate, to beg. I saw him realize it would do no good. Connor believed.