Eight years ago, Dr. Roberts told Lila, “Healing requires patience. It requires forgiveness.”

Lila wanted to scream the first time he said that. He had no idea what it was like. He was a man. How could he understand? Forgive her attackers? Hell no! Kill them, maybe. Put them in prison at the very least. But never forgive them.

“Don’t confuse hatred for strength,” Dr. Roberts had said. “The forgiveness isn’t for them. It’s for you.”

How many times had she fantasized about finding those who had attacked her, those faces with no features, men with no names? In her dreams, she saw them as shadows, stood against them with rage as her only weapon. Never once did those encounters end in forgiveness.

Chapter 2

Who gets married on a Sunday? Gavin Spencer pondered that question as he stood at the edge of the dance floor, squinting through the viewfinder of his Canon Mark IV. People with any money at all got married on Saturday, which was why wedding venues offered Sunday discounts—for people like the newly minted Mr. and Mrs. Halloway.

“Peasants,” he whispered to himself.

Gavin aimed his camera at the bride and one of her bridesmaids, hopping up and down in one of those half-hug-half-dance embraces, the kind of thing seen at events where alcohol is served. The bride’s dress, though not a hand-me-down, was definitely off the rack, and the bridesmaid wore a purple gown with a high slit up the side, slinky and simple, a dress that could be repurposed for a date night or New Year’s Eve party. They were bedecked beyond the stretch of their meager budgets—yet they were incapable of living up to those dresses.

When they saw Gavin and his camera, they raised their beer glasses in yet another drunken toast—the bridesmaid screeching, “Hey, Picture Boy! Whoo!” He aimed the camera at the two women as they squeezed in tight, their beers held high, the inebriant sloshing down, splashing to the dance floor and speckling their knockoff Dior shoes.

This was the tenth time that the bridesmaid had demanded that a picture be taken and the tenth time she had called Gavin Picture Boy. With any luck, he had snapped the photo in time to catch her spilling her beer. Maybe she would see it later and be embarrassed, even sorry for being vulgar, but then Gavin shook his head, disappointed that he gave voice to such a laughable notion. Women like her were never sorry, not to guys like him.

Gavin had already taken hundreds of pictures of the bride and groom. He had taken pictures of the relatives and the ceremony, all of it staged like a grand tableau. As far as Gavin was concerned, wedding photography was the art of deception, creating phony memories to set the bar of their happiness so high that every day to follow would be a disappointment. It pleased Gavin to think that his pictures might one day be thrown around as the couple fought over things like custody and alimony and child support.