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 had never given me a reason to fear him.

Until now.

And the worst part was that he seemed aware of how frightened I had become.

“Emily,” he said, lowering his voice, “look at me.”

I didn’t want to.

“Please.”

I lifted my eyes.

For a second, his expression softened. Then his gaze dropped toward the floor before returning to my face.

I remembered the way he had watched me beside the pool earlier that afternoon. I remembered how he had leaned close to my ear and whispered that I should come to his room.

Suddenly, every small detail seemed to fit together in the worst possible way.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked.

Richard frowned.

“Like what?”

“Like you know something about me that I don’t.”

He went completely still.

That reaction frightened me more than any answer could have.

“Who told you?” he asked.