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‘No.’
‘Sexually?’
‘No.’
‘Were you happy?’
A slight pause. ‘No.’
‘Were you afraid?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Did you have friends?’
‘No.’
‘Did you read books?’
‘No.’
‘What were you afraid of?’
Another pause. ‘The dark.’
‘Really? Anything else?’
A muscle throbs in his jaw. ‘The bogeyman?’
He’s not being serious. Fine.
‘Tell me about the Morrows.’
Just like that, his eyes whip to mine. Anguish. Anger.
‘Why?’
‘Because I want to know about them.’
‘They were a nice couple. Full stop.’
‘What did they do with you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘On weekends, for example. How did you spend them?’
His eyes assume a faraway look. ‘I can’t remember.’
‘Don’t lie to me,’ I say, barely able to keep the frustration from my voice.
‘I’m not lying to you.’
‘Did you play sports with them?’
‘No.’
‘Watch television together?’
