My uncle once asked me, ‘Are you a virgin?’ when I was already 27 years old. From that moment, I started to be afraid of him. And a few days later, when he took me to a hotel outside the city, he leaned close to my ear by the pool and whispered, ‘After the pool, come up to my room…’”

Now I understood that none of those beliefs had been entirely false.

But none had been complete, either.

I took Sarah’s hand across the table.

“We’ll find out what happened,” I told her.

She nodded, and for the first time since we had met, she smiled.

That evening, I called Richard.

“I met Sarah.”

“I know,” he said softly. “She called me afterward.”

“There’s still a lot we don’t know.”

“Yes.”

“But I want you to help me find out.”

He was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “I’ll do whatever I can.”

I closed my eyes.

I still remembered standing outside Room 214, convinced that my uncle had brought me there for a reason I was too frightened to name.

I remembered the way his eyes had made me uncomfortable, the way his voice had sounded in the quiet hallway, and the terrible thoughts I had carried into that room.