Instead I made myself into a witness, patient and methodical, writing down times to the minute, describing what I saw in plain factual language stripped of my own fear, photographing what I could photograph without being caught.

I told myself that my anger was a fuel, not a plan, and that the way I would actually help Raymond was not by feeling deeply but by recording accurately.

It was the loneliest and most frightening work I have ever done, tending a man by day as though nothing in the world were wrong and quietly documenting the slow crime against him by night, smiling at the very people I was quietly building a case against.

But I understood that a careful record, kept by someone the guilty had dismissed as harmless, might one day become the thing that undid them.