I want to say that it’s cathartic for her—and for me—to rid the house of the disguises he wore to play the part of a human being. The Rotary Club sweatshirts. The team GH Kids T-shirt. The suits he wore to work. The one he wore to Violet’s wedding. All those items should be burned and not given away—in case pedophilia is a dormant virus embedded in the fabric. Telling Mom that, of course, is a no-go.

  She folds his shirts before setting them in a grocery bag. She says, “He wasn’t all bad. You know that, Rose.”

  Her comment startles me a little. “I do?”

  “Yes,” she says, “you do.” She continues folding his shirts like she still works in the men’s section at the department store. “He was a good provider.”

  “That doesn’t make what he did all right. You surely know that, Mom?”

  She puts her twiglike finger to her lips.

  “Shhh! Not everything has to be talked about. He’s gone. That’s enough. Now skedaddle to the kitchen and bring me another garbage bag.”

  When I return, I say, “I’ll load the dishes and run the dishwasher before I go.”

  “Rose, sit with me.”

  I perch on the edge of her bed. My father’s highboy looks just as it always did. On top are a couple of golf trophies and a change dish, an ashtray that I made in the second grade. Dad didn’t smoke, but that hadn’t occurred to me when I made it. I’d wrapped it in pink tissue and coated that with a jar of gold glitter. He made such a fuss about it that whenever I saw it—no matter what was rattling around in my brain—it made me happy.

  “I want to talk, honey.” Her voice is faint and sad, but I don’t look at her. I stay fixed on the gift I made my father.

  She notices. “Would you like to have that?”

  “Huh? Oh no, Mom.”

  “He kept it there all these years.”

  I nod.

  “He loved you, honey. And your girls, of course. Even Richard, although I expect he’d be whistling a different tune on that one if he were still alive.”

  I waited for the other shoe to drop. My mother thought that hurtful words could be weakened by a compliment given beforehand.

  “It killed him that Vi didn’t want him at her wedding.”

  Mom is spot on just then. It had killed him.

  “Mom, you cannot control everything and everybody. Violet had her reasons, and you know what they are.”

  Mom reaches a quaking hand—a play for sympathy—toward the water I set on the nightstand. “That was a misunderstanding.”

  I can’t get her to see the truth, the validity, of what my daughter said.

  I get up to leave. “I’m going to go now.”

  “Honey, don’t forget the coin dish.”

  I take it off the highboy, knocking over a photo of the three of us. It falls facedown. I don’t pick it up.

  Five minutes later, the ancient Hotpoint dishwasher is running like a steam locomotive. I’m not mad. I’m not. Just tired of it all. Tired of living in a hermetically sealed version of what my mother believes our family life was like. The photos she’d scattered around the house were like piles of slug bait in the garden. Innocuous but poisonous.

  Halfway home, I roll down my window, take the ceramic dish in my hand, and summon the dormant power of my softball outfielder’s arm. With one sweeping motion, I send it smashing against the roadway. I don’t slow to look. Instead, I press the ball of my foot on the accelerator. I have never littered in my life, and part of me feels guilty about it. Guilt and me. Besties forever.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Yakima, Washington

  Violet

  Ursula Renner refuses to be denied. Just won’t be. She manages to wedge her way into the booth between me and Maria, leaving her husband in a chair looking like he’s squaring off with three members of a panel interview—with his wife being the hard sell of the panel. At nearly every industry event, Ursula exerts her need to share her own anecdotal market research.

  She studies me. She thinks I’m her way in.

  “Everyone I know agrees that we need to stop pushing apples as a healthy choice and make them a decadent treat.”

  I leave the space open for Sam and Maria to react, but they stay silent. God, I hate this. Ursula is excited. She’s got a definite point of view. I’ll give her that.

  “I’ve never thought of apples in that way,” I say.

  She shoots her husband a knowing glance, and he signals for another drink.

  “See, Sam?” she tells him, pointing to her nearly empty green appletini glass when the waitress returns.

  I shake my head and so does Maria. We didn’t order off the apple-a-cart menu created by the hotel for our meeting. A glass of Pinot for me. Maria, the Char.

  The cavalcade of silver charms on Ursula’s Pandora bracelet rattle against the surface of the table as she ticks off each point.

  “Apple strudel, caramel apples, candy apples, apple spice cakes, apple turnovers . . .”

  Apple Jacks cereal, I think as she goes on and on.

  I tune out more when I see Maria is capturing Ursula’s list on her phone’s notepad. Sam is watching the waitress. I’m grateful that I can zone out about apple decadence because my mind continues to return to the registry.

  I’d spent most of the “working session” that morning scrolling through the registry and searching the internet for more on the crimes of the molesters and rapists listed there. I was shopping, I guess. Looking for a local candidate that deserved, at the very least, a confrontation. A reckoning. He needed to know that serving his time didn’t end his victim’s trauma. It didn’t stop the shame that his family endured either. He needed to know that there was no erasing the stench of what he’d done.

  I selected two names in my pretend shopping cart. I’m waffling between them.

  The first is Alberto Gonzalez, forty-two. He’s been arrested fourteen times on charges ranging from rape to sexual assault to lurking outside a neighbor’s window. He’s been in prison more than half his miserable life. His tatted neck reminds me of a cross section of a tree, and I wonder if one could count the number of tattoos to determine how many years he’s served. His eyes are the eyes of a predator, vacant of any emotion. It isn’t because I know what he’s done, so I infer there’s no emotion.

  I see absolutely nothing in those eyes.

  Zero.

  The other is older. His name is Mike Stone. He looks as hard as his name. His face is angular, and his collarbone protrudes so much, someone could hang a wet dish towel on it. Mike Stone has been a serial offender—like all of them. He molested his little brother when he was eighteen, though I suspect that’s just when he was caught. After that, he’s had several arrests and incarcerations in Washington, Oregon, and Idaho. Stone’s victims were always boys. I know through my own internet research that molesters often beget more molesters.

  That’s why I select him.

  For what I don’t know.

  Not exactly.

  “Vi?”

  Maria calls my name, and I shake myself back into the moment.

  “Sorry. I can’t stop thinking of Ursula’s idea. So out of the box.”

  Ursula beams, and Sam gives her a woozily affectionate smile while setting down his empty glass.

  “Dinner tonight, ladies?” he asks.

  Before I answer, Maria politely declines for the both of us. “We’re going to have dinner with my family at home. Going to show Violet what our little orchard is all about.”

  The Renners seem disappointed as we leave the booth. I notice them scanning the hotel bar to see what other dining partners are available.

  When the elevator doors shut, Maria and I bust out in laughter.

  “Out-of-the-box thinking?” she says, looking upward.

  “You were writing down everything she said.”

  “Actually, I wasn’t.”

  She shows me the screen of her phone.

  A smile breaks over my face. “A shopping list? Wow. You had me worried for a while. Remind me never to play poker with you.”

  The door opens on our floor.

  “Ready in fifteen?” she asks me.

  I touch my abdomen. “I’ll have to take a rain check. Something in my stomach has been doing handstands this afternoon.”

  “Oh no. Probably those awful apple pancakes.”

  “I think I better stay in. I was really looking forward to it.”

  “Can I get you anything? Tums? Pepto?”

  I fish for my room card. “No. Don’t worry. Have a great time. See you in the morning.”

  “All right, then.” Maria pushes open the door to the room across from mine. “Feel better.”

  I shut my door, turn the dead bolt, and open my bag on the luggage rack.

  Even though I really don’t have a plan, I act as though I do. I won’t take my phone with me because I don’t want it to ping on any cell tower. I’ve seen enough crime TV to know that much. I write down Stone’s address on a hotel pad. I’ll take the whole pad with me and discard it. Again, I know what forensic scientists can do with the slightest indentation on a piece of paper.

  I truly don’t know what I’m going to do. Or if I’ll use the knife, whose handle peers from the opening of my purse.

  I change into jeans and put on a pair of sandals. I text Zach.

  Me: Feeling sick. Must have been something I ate. Turning off my phone to get some rest. See you tomorrow night.

  He sends a sad face and a heart emoji.

  I return the puking smiley.

  Phone off and out the door. A “Do Not Disturb” door hanger swings in its place.

  There was a practical reason I picked this particular guy too. I don’t have a car. Can’t take an Uber. The address is a reasonable nineteen-minute walk down North First to the seven hundred block. I toss the directions in the first trash receptacle I find. My landmark is the rent-by-the-hour Bali Hai Motel.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Violet

  When I see Mike Stone’s house, I know what will materialize.

  My objective comes into focus.

  A war will be started.

  The little red house behind the Bali Hai is close to what I expected. So is the Bali Hai—a dump with an incongruously exotic name—and a group of three men and two women arguing about something. I’m glad I have my knife. The pervert’s home base is small and decrepit. The dried-up yard needs mowing. Better yet, a Weedwhacker and a chain saw. From the street, I can see the glow of a floor lamp and the flicker of a big-screen TV—naturally, a plasma that likely fills the entire wall. I call Seattle, possibly America’s most liberal city, home. And yet as I stand there taking in Mike Stone’s residence, I make assumptions rooted in bigotry toward the poor.

  I pump my lungs full of warm night air and knock.

  No answer.

  I pound harder.

  A dog barks and the door opens.

  “Sir,” I say, letting out the air, like I’m gasping and afraid. “Can I use your phone? Those guys over there grabbed mine. Right out of my hand. They tried to take my purse too.”

  Mike Stone looks nothing like his mug shot. He’s a lot less scary. His eyes look kind and full of concern.

  “Those assholes,” he says, opening the door wide. “Tried to do the same thing to the old gal next door. Yeah, sure, come on in.”

  It’s that easy to get inside.

  His shirt, a button-down, no less, is clean. His jeans are new Levi’s. The same kind that men my father’s age wear.

  The house is spotless.

  He passes me his phone and turns down the ball game, the Mariners against Arizona.

  “Who’s winning?” I ask.

  “We are.”

  “That’s the second shock of the night,” I say as I pretend to reach Maria.

  He lets out a short laugh, and he cradles his no-longer noisy little dog, a toy poodle mix, I think.

  “Can you pick me up? I got robbed. Not robbed really. Phone-napped or something. I’m on Seventh just behind the . . . a . . .”

  “Bali Hai,” he says, his eyes on the TV.

  “The Bali Hai Motel. I’ll be outside. Right. Stupid to go for a walk, I know.”

  He retrieves his phone from my outstretched hand.

  “My ride is about ten minutes away. I’ll wait outside.”

  “Sure? Not the best neighborhood. Full of weirdos.”

  Like you, I think.

  “You can say that again, Mr. Stone.”

  His brow braids and surprise fills his eyes.

  “How do you know my name?”

  Suddenly adrenaline pumps through my body like a fire hose.

  “I know everything about you,” I tell him, standing my ground while he steps forward and sets down his dog.

  The way he regards me just then tells me everything I need to know. He’s been in this moment before. Probably many times. I’m glad for that. I won’t be the first to confront him. His blue eyes now seem vacant. The same light-colored eyes that rolled over victims as he sodomized them. The same eyes that didn’t blink once when he told each boy they were special, that they would thank him one day for all he’d taught them.

  All he’d given them.

  “I want you to leave now.”

  He’s afraid of me.

  Of the knife I’m now holding.

  “Look, I didn’t do anything wrong. I never hurt anyone. They loved me. You don’t understand. I get that. Few do. Boys need to be taught like I was taught.”

  His excuse is the lie that he tells himself.

  “You are a destroyer, not a teacher,” I say.

  He segues to another approach, redemption.

  “I have changed. Really. And I wanted to. I did. It wasn’t because I had to. I wanted to stop.”

  “Stop what?” I ask, moving the knife in a way that keeps his attention.

  “You know.”

  “Say it, Mr. Stone.”

  He takes a step back and slumps into a lounge chair.

  “Messing with boys.”

  Not good enough. “Be specific.”

  “Having sex with them.”

  “Sex? That’s not quite right. Is it?”

  I notice beads of sweat on his upper lip.

  “All right. Raping them.”

  I’m holding the knife in the way that cops hold a flashlight, overhand.

  “Will you go now? You got whatever you came here for, I hope. If I raped your brother or something, I’m sorry. I ask for forgiveness.”

  I don’t answer. I’m thinking about what to do. He’s bigger than I am, though not by much. He’s trying to show remorse, manufactured as it may be. I survey the room. The scene. I look for anything that might indicate he is a liar. I’m not sure any of that matters, but I process it all regardless. No sacks of candy. No video games. No sports gear.

  My eyes land on a plush bear slumped in the corner.

  His eyes land on mine.

  Decision made.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  July 10

  Gig Harbor, Washington

  Rose

  Lynette’s mother, Cindy Riggs, volunteers at the new senior center. I ran into her there a few weeks before Violet’s wedding when I dropped off a packet of May Day artwork my class made as a community sharing project. We’d chatted only briefly that afternoon. I didn’t mention my girls or the wedding. When a mother loses a child as Cindy did, it’s a bit of an ugly truth that other moms, like me, find it difficult to fully reconnect. You can only say how sorry you are about her loss so many times, though you feel it every time you see her. And truthfully, deep down, you’re glad you’re not her. The same is mostly true of the dead child’s friends. It becomes too painful. Conversations become waves across the street, then rote head nods, and finally, the pretense of not seeing the childless mom at all takes over.

  I find Mrs. Riggs in the blindingly lit craft room assisting residents with an art project.

  Her smile fades when she sees me.

  “Jenny called me,” she says.

  That’s probably for the best, I think. I’m not here to ambush her. “Can we go somewhere to talk? Somewhere private.”

  She tells me she heard about my father’s passing and wondered how Mom was doing.

  “Haven’t seen her in ages.”

  “She’s pretty much a homebody,” I say. I know she’s just being nice. Small talk. Nice people do that. “Maybe with Dad gone,” I add, “she’ll find more reasons to get out of the house.”

  “Let her know we can always use some help around here. I figure we might as well get the lay of the land; we’ll all end up in a place like this sooner than later.”

  Mrs. Riggs gives a champagne-haired lady encouragement over tissue paper sunflowers she’s making, and I follow her to a small room near the main office. We sit on hard plastic chairs that I’m certain were selected by someone who never tried them out. Mrs. Riggs’s feet dangle as she’s sucked backward in the seat.

  I feel queasy inside, but I start anyway. “What did Jenny say?”

  “The same thing she’s said before. And before we go any further, I need you to know that my daughter never talked to me about anything that might have happened at your house. Not a single word of it. All I know is that she said she didn’t like going over there, so we never went back.”

  “Didn’t you find that strange? Concerning?”

  “Honestly, I might have back then. I’m seventy-nine now, Rosie,” she says, using the nickname that kids called me until middle school. “I’m not sure sometimes what I remember for real or if I remember it because I’ve heard the story so many times.”

  She’s selling herself short. She’s as sharp as ever. It’s in the eyes.

  “Did you ever talk to my mom about it?”

  She removes her glasses and wipes them with a tissue. “Once or twice. Maybe. It was no big conversation. I just told her that Lynette wouldn’t be coming around. She was uncomfortable or nervous. Your mom said she’d noticed the same thing. That was the sum of it. Really. Nothing until Jenny said a few things to me at Lynette’s memorial.”