“I’m not forgetting about Troy,” I say quickly. “But Emily was the one home alone with Cameron, and the primary caregiver. She’d stopped acting to be a full-time mom. And she’s the one who failed her polygraph. I don’t think I’m being cold at all, just realistic. We don’t have time for kid gloves, Will. If Emily knew about the abuse, not only would that guilt light up the polygraph exactly this way, but also implicate her. Maybe she feels responsible because she is responsible. Maybe she closed her eyes when it was time to open them wide. Maybe she held her tongue when she should have shouted from the rafters.” The barstool beneath me seems to vibrate with tension. My voice shakes, full of heat. “Maybe she protected her brother, Drew, instead of Cameron.”

Will sits back, his expression shifting. “You seem awfully emotional, Anna.”

“I’m fine,” I shoot back, instantly on the defensive. “I just know I’m onto something here. Look, I found this poem in Cameron’s locker. It might be important.”

He takes Cameron’s postcard as I push it his way and reads the lines silently. When he’s finished, he looks up. “Shit. What fifteen-year-old reads Rilke?”

“A wounded one. ‘I want to be with those who know secret things or else alone.’ Doesn’t that say it all? Some violence is random, obviously, more about chance and opportunity. But sometimes it’s very specific and in sync, like there’s a hidden connection, a vulnerability predators can sense in certain victims, even seeing them for the first time. When the damage is there, it can come through like radar. Almost as if the darkest part of someone’s story can speak directly through their body, alive in their cells. Do you follow me?”

Will looks uncomfortable, his face pink. “Are you saying it’s the victims’ fault somehow? That they’re causing someone to target them?”

“No, not at all. The opposite.” I pick up the postcard again, feeling frustrated. The right words seem beyond me.

“Then how? What actually happens?”

“I worked with a really smart psychological profiler once,” I try again. “He used the term ‘bat signal’ to talk about this sort of thing, how victims unwittingly announce themselves to abusers. We all come into the world with a pure bright light, right? We’re innocent, fresh as fucking heaven. Bright and pure and clean.”

“I believe that,” Will says, and the catch in his voice makes me feel less alone. “Everyone’s born with a clean slate.”