To the naked eye, he is a supremely confident man. On camera, you see this in the thrust of his chest, his optimistic grin. What you can’t see is the rot roiling below the surface. Funny, but watching him on-screen, I can’t see it either. I can almost forget it’s there.

Lawrence bends his head and Haggerty pushes him forward, into a waiting car. Then he’s gone.

A few days later, I text Haggerty:

Thanks for everything. You’re not such a shitty cop, I guess.

I’m a detective, Ms. Quinn. Your praise is humbling.

It’s Cassie. Maybe one day we can solve crimes together.

Cassie, I look forward to it.

* * *

No one is all good or all bad. You can love your father because he clothed and fed you, but you can hate him because he’s a man and tragically flawed. I love Lawrence in the childlike way that’s rarely questioned. The kind of love that’s involuntary, like breathing. The kind of love that’s impossible to stop even if stopping is the only way I’ll survive.

Lawrence was charged with statutory rape of a minor, along with other crimes related to me. Turns out Billy’s testimony, my conversations with Haggerty, and affidavits from Anton, Joey, and Maeve were enough to get a warrant. It’s unlikely the case will go to trial. Given the facts, and the havoc Eleanor can wreak, at some point soon he’ll make a deal. So, unlike his son, Lawrence is headed to prison. Upon his release, he’ll have to register as a sex offender.

I’m not sure that what Lawrence did was a crime, nor am I sure if he committed it alone. We fell in love together and with my full consent. Even if I was too young, as defined by an arbitrary law, I knew what I was doing. Men are men are men. Feral, submissive—it’s biology. I appealed to Lawrence’s baser instincts and got what I wanted.

And yet.

Recent developments suggest that the concrete pillar at my core has sustained a hairline fracture. After Billy was arrested, I saw cops everywhere. Now I see girls. Twelve-year-olds buying frozen yogurt with their moms. Thirteen-year-olds arm-in-arm on the street, laughing uproariously. The other day I walked past a playground and watched a group of girls huddled in the corner, smoking. They were fourteen, maybe fifteen, max. Their cigarettes were hidden, but smoke plumed in the air. Wearing plaid skirts and school blazers, with their yarn friendship bracelets, Converse high-tops, and swinging ponytails, they looked so childish, so blissfully unaware that I felt my legs give way and had to sit down. Then I started to cry.