“Don’t hurt her,” I screamed. “I won’t tell my dad you’ve been coming over. I won’t tell him about the drugs. I was just kidding,” I screamed.

But he was out of control. When she tried to get up he came behind her. She was on her knees. He came behind her and put out his hands, really slowly. She wasn’t moving fast so he wasn’t rushing. He held out his hands like he was going to put them under her arms and help her get up. But then he moved really quickly and put them around her neck and started to squeeze. She started wiggling, thrashing around, making these horrible sounds. I can hear them now, these little gurgles, gasping for breath, and he squeezed even harder. She had on a fine gold necklace and it wrapped all around his finger so tight it cut right into him but he just kept going. Violence takes the pain away. The necklace wasn’t on her neck when they pulled her out of the pond. The police never mentioned it — it must have fallen off into the water. It’s a deep pond. I grabbed his arm to get him to stop, and that’s when he spun around and hit me in the face and I fell down.

I started crying when I told my father this when he first came in with all his stubble. I cried when I told the police and my lawyer, every time I’ve told them. My nose was running, snot all over my face, all over my bruised cheek. Crying is disgusting. The youth worker who came in to check if everything was okay was this really cute guy and I didn’t want him to see me looking like a blubbering mess. After he left, my father reached across the table and put his hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, Isabella,” he said. “We’ll get through this. This is my fault for not being around more . . . I’m so sorry.” His voice broke and I took my hands down from my face so he could see me, my eyes red and blotchy. There were tears running down his cheeks as he held my hand.

My father isn’t crying now. He just yawns and I can smell his disgusting breath. Too much coffee. He hasn’t even had time to whiten his teeth. He just waits for me to say something but I’ve said all there is to say and so for this visit, he’ll just have to sit there and learn this.

After my mother left I used to wonder what she would have looked like if the brakes hadn’t worked on her car, what her face would have looked like if it had smashed through the windshield, glass stuck in her big sparkling eyes.

For the last year when my mother called for our Sunday talk, I didn’t bother answering the phone. She finally called my father at work. He told me I should really find time to take her call. I just shrugged and said I’d see what I could do. He sighed. “Isabella, when your mind is made up it’s like trying to stir dried concrete.” I thought that was stupid because concrete is so ugly, and I felt like kicking him.