I take a moment to study my glass, realizing I’m not sure how to answer. How can I put my emotions into words that will make sense to this man who sees the world in stark black and white? I’m not sure I want to open that Pandora’s box because I don’t know what will come flying out.

“You’re probably the most levelheaded woman I’ve ever known,” he says. “Getting caught up like this isn’t like you.”

I look at him over the top of my beer. “More your style, isn’t it?”

He gives me a self-deprecating smile. “Why don’t we save my analysis for next time?”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Don’t apologize. Honesty is one of the things I like about you.”

“I thought you liked my legs.”

“That, too.”

He gives me a half smile, and we sip our beers. The turmoil inside me eases. The silence becomes slightly more tolerable. Almost comfortable. He shatters it with his next question. “Is this about what happened to you seventeen years ago?”

My flinch is slight, but I know he saw it because his eyes sharpen. I can feel his gaze scratching at my shell, a predator trying to get to the soft meat inside.

“I don’t know,” I admit.

“There are some parallels.”

I’m aware of my heart beating in my temples. The familiar clenching of my gut. It shocks me that even after all this time, talking about that day, about what happened—what I did—and the domino effect that followed, can shake me so profoundly. “Probably more than you know.”

“Is that something I should be able to figure out?”

I stare at my beer. At the shot glasses. The tabletop. Anywhere but at him. I know it’s stupid, but I feel if I look at him, he’ll know.

He waits with a patience that makes me want to splash my beer in his face. I light a second cigarette, inhaling deeply, punishing my lungs, taking my time. I don’t realize I’m going to say anything until I hear my own voice. “Two months after Daniel Lapp raped me, I found out I was pregnant.”

My own words shock me. It’s the first time I’ve spoken them aloud and they seem inordinately loud. I glance quickly around to make sure no one else heard, but the place is nearly deserted. The jukebox plays on. McNarie stands at the bar, watching the television, drying glasses with his dingy white towel. No one is looking my way. The earth didn’t move.

Tomasetti isn’t easily shocked, but I can tell by his expression this shocks him. He doesn’t know what to say.

“I had an abortion,” I say quickly. “I couldn’t . . . have it. Didn’t want it.”

He scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus, Kate.”