We started with dinner salad. He sat stiffly, not touching his wine, keeping his eyes on his plate. He had aged well. Squarely built, solid but not fat. Gray hair on top of a broad, mustached face. He moved concisely, with an economy of motion that appealed to me.

He asked about my aunt, my schooling, my plans for the future. I painted for him a light overview of my new and improved life. It was what he needed to hear; once, he’d carried me through my father’s house, his arms tight around my bony shoulders, his voice a warm whisper in my ear. “Don’t look honey. You’re safe now, you’re safe.”

I dished up penne pasta. Covered it in red sauce.

Then I got serious.

I didn’t ask about my father. Instead, I dredged from Sheriff Wayne’s memory all the bright, shining moments of my mother’s laugh and Johnny’s mischievous ways and Natalie’s compassion for animals. Turns out, my sister had once adopted a wild bunny she’d found struck by a car and nursed it back to health. She wanted to work with animals. I learned that from Sheriff Wayne. And my brother liked to climb to the tops of trees, then call for my mother to come see, so she could raise her hands and shriek in mock horror.

The memories got to him, of course. Hurt him even more than me, because these people remained real in his mind, whereas they’d long ago become ghosts to me.

The wine went quickly. Who could blame him?

He offered to clear the dishes. I watched him move around in my tiny kitchenette, gestures less steady after two hours of intense emotions, plus a full bottle of Chianti. He stacked the dishes in the sink. Rinsed each one. Placed them in a pile to soak. Then the pans. Then his wineglass. Then my water glass. Two forks. Two spoons. Two knives.

When he returned to the table, I could see the effects of the evening in the haggard lines of his face. He tried to speak, but I wouldn’t let him.

“Shhh,” I said. “Shhh …”

As I undid the first button of my top, then the second, then the third, exposing, inch by inch, long lines of bare, bronzed skin, a lacy wisp of lingerie.

“Don’t,” he said. “You shouldn’t … not right—”

“Shhh …”

I straddled his lap. I let my shirt fall open, rocking my hips gently against his groin. He tried to protest again, his mouth forming faint words that I pretended not to hear. I feathered my hands through his buzz-cut hair. I touched the solid lines of his shoulders. And I felt his body start to respond as my white shirt drifted down to the floor, as I arched my back and offered myself to him.

“Danielle …” A last desperate plea.

“Shhh …”