Cameron is in her room with Gray, the two of them listening to music, sitting on Cameron’s bed. Her right arm is in a sling bound to her chest, and her face still bears the evidence of her harrowing ordeal. And yet I can also see a light in her, newly kindled. There’s a great deal of work ahead, but she’s alive and in her body. How miraculous that is. They’re both miraculous, hip to hip on Cameron’s bed while Madonna sings “Like a Prayer.”

I leave them there and find Emily in the kitchen. She’s organizing her spice cabinet, and there are bottles strewn everywhere. It’s a relief to see her surrounded by a mess somehow, even for a moment, even though she’ll tidy it again.

“Will told me Cameron’s starting to remember more about her early abuse,” I say quietly. “Do you know yet? Has she been able to tell you?”

She nods heavily. “She’s only getting pieces. The therapist is amazing. He’s helping her a lot. I’m pretty sure it’s my dad, though.”

“I’m so sorry, Emily.”

Her sigh sounds ancient. “Yeah. Me too. But I’m going to support her. Whatever it takes, however ugly it gets, the truth has to come out, Anna.”

She’s right. I think of the officer who will knock on her father’s door one day soon. The long-overdue detonation of his secret self. The healing that might begin. “I’m proud of you,” I say.

Her eyes film over. “At least Caleb is dead. I’m not sure she ever would have been able to go on with him still on the loose.”

“Probably not.” I have to agree, though the memory of our struggle in the cabin hasn’t left me for a moment. Maybe it never will. “How’s Troy?”

“Troy is…Troy wants to work it out. He’s promising to stand by us.”

“Well, you’ll know what to do,” I tell her. “It might take a while for you to feel what’s right for you and Cameron. But you can do this. I’ve seen so much strength in you, Emily. I hope you can see it, too.”

—

Then there is only Will to find. I hate telling him that I’m leaving, but this is the easiest of the things I have to say. The rest is too much to find words for, and yet I do, somehow. I tell him about Sarah, about Brendan asking me to leave. About the guilt and blame and raw grief I’ve been carrying. About Matthew. How afraid I’ve been to mother him. It’s like moving a mountain off of my chest to say his name, even. To tell the whole story of how I got here.

“I should have trusted you more from the beginning,” I finally say through tears, “but I didn’t know how.”