“As most of you know already, I’m Dr. Mackenzie and this place where you find yourselves now is where we shall, all of us, be meeting every Tuesday and Thursday, two to five p.m. for the next year. Perhaps some of you will come to love this place, while for others, I’m afraid, it may feel like your own personal penitentiary.” There are shy titters from around the group. “But I hope, at the very least, it will be a sort of mind gym for you all. A place to sweat out ideas, take a few punches and give a few—considered and well placed—in return. Here, together, we will try to understand some of the most ethically challenging acts committed by humans and, in turn, try to formulate a framework for how we believe society should respond to those acts. It will be hard work for us all, and for some it may feel distasteful at times, perhaps even morally and spiritually confrontational, but it is my belief that in order to understand people and therefore the world in which we live, we have to understand all different types of people and expressions of humanity, even if to us they may seem inhumane. So, there we are. Now, before I go on, and I will go on and on and on”—more polite laughter—“I want to meet all of you and for you to meet each other. So, let’s go round the table and if you could introduce yourself please, and explain a bit about why you’re here, champing at the bit to study criminology.” Dr. Mackenzie opens a large white palm towards the guy sitting to my left. Next to him there’s a girl who’s scribbling notes already and then, I realize, my stomach plunging, it’ll be my turn.

The first guy stands, color flushes to his cheeks. He looks like he was knitted specially to go to university. He’s wearing a plaid shirt under a wool V-neck sweater, and brown cords. He takes his glasses off before he smiles confidently at us all.

“Hello, I’m Jamie. I did my A-levels at Harrow before working abroad . . .”

I suddenly feel like laughing. I wish I could take a photo to send to Mum. She’d hoot if she saw this place, these people, me in the middle of them. She cried when the acceptance letter came in the mail and was still crying when she pulled me into her arms.

“I couldn’t be more proud of you, Car,” she said, a little too loudly, into my ear. Although she’d never say so, I know she’d be even happier if I was studying history of art, or anything other than criminology.

While Jon was in the hospital I told Upton everything Jon had told me about Meg, what she was doing to Grace. Upton interviewed Dr. Rossi and slowly others came forward, and then there was a flood of stories. Nurses remembered seeing Meg fiddling with Grace’s IV, doctors admitted feeling uncomfortable with Grace’s test results but bowed to pressure from Meg, friends realized it must have been Meg who stole their earrings. Meg forced such a cocktail of drugs into Grace that even she started to believe Grace was unwell. Her conditions and symptoms baffled most doctors and if there was ever a hint that anyone was becoming suspicious she’d move Grace to a new doctor. They didn’t move to Ashford for a better life, they moved because Meg thought—correctly—that the aging Dr. Parker could be more easily manipulated for referrals and prescriptions. She didn’t make those trips to London to get the best care for Grace, she made them to pick up illegal drugs and fake genetic test results that led to Grace’s muscular dystrophy diagnosis. She carefully researched which drugs to give Grace to weaken her heart, which drugs would cause her to have seizures, and which drugs would stop her being able to swallow. Meg was smarter than any of us knew, her deceit well researched and her tracks carefully covered.