My mother, Irene, dropped her whole basket of apples across the kitchen floor the instant we came through the door.

“Callahan — what did you do?” she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth, and I understood, even in that moment, what her question revealed: that even my own mother’s first instinct, seeing a hurt woman in my arms, was to wonder what I had done.

“I didn’t do anything, Mom,” I said, laying Vivienne gently on the couch.

“Someone did this to her.

I found her in the woods.”