I turned eleven that fall. Andrew turned four. Diana had Andrew every other weekend. When she had him, I would sit in my room and look at the wall and count the hours until he came back.
He didn't understand. He was too small. He loved her. He didn't know what she had done.
The worst part of the whole thing was that I loved him too. My brother. Little Andrew. He had her eyes. He had my father's laugh. He was innocent in a way none of the rest of us were.
That's the thing no one tells you. When you're building a case against someone, the case doesn't just affect them. It affects everyone they touched. Every person they hurt. Every person who might be hurt by the truth coming out.
"Are you sure you want to keep going?" Margaret asked me one afternoon. We were sitting in her office, surro
