The conference was in June, in a city I had never visited, in a hotel with a ballroom and a stage and a thousand seats. The room was full. Survivors, advocates, law enforcement, journalists, and ordinary people who had read my book and wanted to hear me speak.
I stood at the podium and looked out at the crowd. Lorraine was in the front row, next to Maria, next to Sarah Chen, the law student who had become an investigator. Ruth Ann was there, in her reading glasses, and Principal Hargrove, and Alice Cho, and Margaret Wilson.
And in the back of the room, standing by the door, was Dean.
He didn't try to catch my eye. He just stood there, with his hands in his pockets, waiting to see what I would say.
I turned to the microphone.
"Good morning," I said. "My name is Clara Whitfield. When I
