Kateri leans back in the driver’s seat. “Who would go that far?” she asks. “To get property?”

“It’s worth millions to him,” Hurt says. “And he’s a sadist. Any other businessman would just offer the kid money and buy him out. Not Miller,” he says.

“That poor kid,” Kateri says.

“Well,” Hurt says.

“Miller is providing his lawyer,” she says.

“Yeah,” Hurt says. “That kid’s fucked.”

TWENTY-SEVEN: SHANNON

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 2

Brewer slams around when he comes to visit. It’s like the chair isn’t enough to hold him. He’s not a big guy. Not much bigger than me, but he takes up a lot of space. He asks questions like an annoyed school psychologist, like some kind of shrink, hoping to blame it all on my mother.

“What are you doing?” I ask him finally. I’m tired of wearing prison scrubs. My feet feel clammy inside the rubbery crocs they issued me to wear over these awful scratchy white socks. The seams of the scrub shirt rub under my arms and leave my skin red and raw.

“What do you mean, what am I doing?” Brewer asks.

He’s not attractive. I mean, I’m sure someone finds him attractive, like maybe a woman who wants to be told what to do without ever being looked in the eye. He’s too perfect. Not a hair is out of place. Bleached teeth. It’s repulsive. His eyes are bright but creepy. His shirt, underneath his suit jacket, is so starched it’s like heavy paper.

I motion at the notes he’s always making. “With this,” I say. I just want to lie down, on a real bed. On the white bed, with Bear, and Buddy curled behind my knees. It’s been hard to sleep at all, and I’m always tired, frayed, fuzzy at the edges. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear it was a tactic.

“I’m building a character study,” Brewer says.

“On me?”

“And your mother,” he says. He moves his feet noisily on the concrete floor, and it echoes in the room.

“Is she on trial?” I ask. I want to goad him. I feel like a brat.

“Kind of,” Brewer answers. “I have a better chance of proving you not guilty if I can paint an accurate picture of her.”

“You can never paint an accurate picture of her,” I say. “She’s more complicated than one thing,” I say. “Was,” I add.

“Not without your help, I can’t,” he says. He drums his fingers hard on the table. His hands are big, with squared-off fingers and short nails. “This is difficult,” he says to me, “and I apologize.”

I shrug. I’m not even sure what Brewer might find difficult. Lifting, maybe. Having a pimple.

“Were you sexually abused by your mother?” he asks.

“No.”

“Someone else?” he asks.

“No,” I say.

“How often did your mother abuse you?” he asks.

“I just said she didn’t,” I say.

“Physically,” he says. “Hitting, kicking, et cetera.” He waits.

“I don’t know,” I say. I was hit a few times, in the midst of bad fights. It wasn’t what I would call abuse. It was fighting. Abuse is when you hit a kid who can’t hit back, when you beat someone with something. A bat.