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…’”

He said it quietly, almost as though he were reminding me of an appointment.

I stared at him.

“You brought me all the way here to ask me that again?”

“No.”

“Then why do you keep asking me personal questions about my private life?”

He rubbed his forehead.

“Because I need to know something.”

“Know what?”

“That you haven’t been hurt.”

The words came so unexpectedly that I forgot to breathe for a moment.

“Who would hurt me?”

Richard looked toward the window.

“That is exactly what I’m trying to find out.”

I took a step backward.

His answer had not reassured me. If anything, it had made the room feel smaller.

I had known Richard my entire life. He was my father’s older brother, a respected businessman, and the man who had helped pay some of my university expenses after my father died. He had attended my graduation, helped repair the roof of my mother’s house, and once driven through a terrible storm because I had called him crying after my car broke down.