After a while she turned to Dan and seeing the earnestness of his expression, sensing his determination to help, she felt a little of her resistance starting to fall away. All that mattered to her in the world was her mother and Jasmine. But since they’d been here in this town they’d discovered that they weren’t on their own anymore. They’d made friends who’d given them support in so many ways that they’d come to trust and believe in them. They had nothing but Marcy’s best interests at heart, hers and Jasmine’s too, and maybe it was time to accept that. She couldn’t feel sorry for the way she had exploded when Dan had explained what this evening was really about—really, what had they expected?—but he hadn’t deserved all the things she’d yelled at him. She wanted to explain this to him but wasn’t sure where to begin. Instead, she said, “I’ll read the letters.”

He smiled. “I don’t think you’ll regret it,” and pulling her to him he pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.

AS MARCY PUT the last letter aside her hand was shaking slightly, and her shoulder ached from having held it in the same position for so long. She was aware of the others watching her, waiting for her response, but she simply let her eyes lose focus as her thoughts weaved her back through his story, seeming to keep her attached to him in a way that wasn’t easy to escape. His home, his mother, the men who’d exploited him . . . It was as if she’d just dreamt about him, and the oddness of it was still playing out in her mind. She didn’t have a clear picture of him, in spite of the photos she’d seen in the press. That person, grim-faced and hollow-eyed, a youthful degenerate who evinced no conscience or remorse, no decency or compassion, wasn’t the one who’d spoken to her from the pages he’d filled. She wasn’t sure who had, she only knew that he’d left her feeling more confused than vengeful, and uncertain about where to go from here, if they should go anywhere at all.

“Are you OK?” Andee asked softly.