Sarah’s face softened. “No.”

“Fifty?”

“No.”

“Twenty-five?”

She attempted to hold back a smile. “No.”

“But more than one. I’m sure of it.”

She gave a half smile. “Maybe.”

“And your other boyfriends … did they tickle you?”

The smile widened. “Maybe.”

“Maybe, huh?” Dad made a mock skeptical face. In a singsong voice, he said, “I bet they did.”

Sarah giggled.

“Did they also do sex with you?”

Instantly, the merriment died.

“Sarah,” Decker said. “Remember we talked before. And I told you how it’s okay to tell secrets if they’re bad secrets.”

She didn’t speak.

“If you had sex with a man, it’s okay to tell me. Even if he told you not to tell.”

She turned her head away.

“Please, Sarah. You’ve got to trust me. You can tell me.”

“But he was my boyfriend.” Tears were in her eyes. “Then he said he didn’t want to be my boyfriend anymore.” Wet streaks rolled down her cheeks.

“Who, Sarah?” Decker asked. “Who didn’t want to be your boyfriend anymore?”

Sarah shook her head. “I don’t want to tell you.”

“Sarah, you don’t have to keep a bad secret.”

“I don’t have to, but I want to.”

Decker glanced at me and shook his head. “Okay, Sarah. If you don’t want to talk, you don’t have to. But if you ever change your mind, I’ll be happy to listen to you.”

She nodded, and for a minute, I thought she might actually relent. Instead, she got up. “I want to see Ella.”

My father’s words rolled through my brain: Molesters are usually charming. They often inspire an unbelievable amount of loyalty, enough trust to get a retarded girl to follow the molester into Hollywood and walk alone in the middle of the night. I still retained my last image of Belinda, crossing the street with her head down, her demeanor so forlorn. A disconsolate figure mowed down by some evil force. Someone had to bury this child properly!

“Sarah,” I called out.

She turned around.

“How about this?” I suggested. “How about if you tell Louise?” Sarah fixed her eyes on me. She remained stubborn and silent. My last-ditch effort. “Well, how about if you tell Koby?” Slowly, she began to smile. Then she began to giggle. “Well … maybe Koby.”

44

By midmorning, the sky had turned sooty gray, the sun blazing down on the top of my head. It was only one-and-a-half blocks to the Strip, but in the heat it felt like a mile in the Sahara. There was a small café at the intersection of Sunset and Willem. Dad and I settled in at a back table, which was serviced by a red-haired waitress with a crew cut, droopy eyes, and an open mouth. She got the order wrong: a pretty slick trick because all we had asked for were coffee variations. Then she realized she was bringing the wrong java to the wrong table. A minute later, she fixed her mistake.

“Who gets the latte?”