What Raymond and Christopher and their whole network had really tried to steal was the most basic thing a person owns: the control of her own life, her own body, her own choices.

And one by one, we were reclaiming it.

A final letter reached me from Christopher, from prison.

He asked for nothing — not forgiveness, not a reply.

He wrote only one thing worth keeping: For a long time I told myself that as long as I wasn’t the one doing the physical harm, I could still be a good person.

It took losing you completely to understand that the person who unlocks the door, the person who stands guard in the hall, and the person who takes the money afterward have all made the same choice. I keep that letter in a drawer — not because I miss him, but because it is the only true thing he ever gave me.

I once believed dangerous people were easy to spot: shadowy strangers, obvious villains.