Clinton had never had a cruel bone in him; that was exactly why Shirley had chosen him.

He was the believer, the helper, the one who would do a harmful thing with his whole heart convinced it was a kindness, because an aunt he trusted had told him it was.

He had been used, as surely as I had nearly been.

“All right, Clinton,” I said quietly, and I let it rest there, because the time to show him what he had done was not yet.

“All right.”