“In your witness statement, you say you can’t remember a time when you weren’t close to him.” The lawyer looks at the judge then Izzy. “Is that statement, in light of what you’ve now told us, a truthful one?”

“When he lay on top of me, I had to take off my clothes. That’s pretty close, isn’t it? And I can’t remember anything further back than that. What he did to me has blocked it all out.”

The picture is vivid. Melissa closes her eyes. The lawyer persists, though it must be obvious to her that she’s losing the battle. “You also say that you can’t imagine him hurting another child.”

“That’s true too. It’s so awful to imagine what I went through actually happening to someone else that I don’t. I just can’t.”

Paul’s face is ashen, even his lips are pale.

“Why have you waited till now to come forward?” The lawyer’s face is pale too. Her lipstick looks garish against the pallor.

“He said it was our special secret and that Mum would commit suicide if she knew.” A tear trickles down Izzy’s cheek—Izzy, who never cries. “He said I’d have to go to some special place for kids.”

“But you’re telling us now because . . . ?”

“He’s tried to hurt Sorrel and he’ll try again with someone else.” Izzy leans forward, her face flushing a brighter pink. “He likes girls when they’re little. Sorrel’s six, like I was at the beginning.” Her words tumble out fast as if she’s been waiting a long time to deliver them.

Melissa can’t see Paul’s face anymore, it’s buried in his hands.

“Do you have any actual evidence of your father’s violence?” The lawyer’s voice is quiet.

“My mum’s sitting somewhere in court—look at her face. It probably doesn’t count, but that’s his doing too.”

Heads turn. Melissa tries not to cringe. The bruises have faded by now but the line on her cheek where the skin was torn remains as an uneven pink scar. The repair was good but the puckering is obvious. She holds herself very still. She had tried to shield Izzy from what Paul did to her, but she must have known all the time. She wants to get up and run to her daughter, but she has to wait a few more minutes.

The lawyer is speaking again, heads swivel back. “Thank you, Isabelle,” she says, then she turns and bows to the district judge. “I have no more questions.” She sits down; her silk shirt has become untucked, the immaculate gray bob a little disordered. The judge begins to talk—something about reconvening and more evidence—she doesn’t catch most of what he says; her mind is so full of Izzy. After a few minutes he leaves the court. Then the whispers start and get louder, waves advancing up the pebbly beach with force. Melissa gathers her coat and her bag. She wants to go to her daughter as soon as she can, so she misses the moment when Paul might have looked for her, seeing only the door close behind him and the accompanying officer.