I explained that a public report could be complete while other investigations or court proceedings continued.

People involved in those processes deserved fair treatment, including the presumption that allegations still had to be proven.

She asked whether the Reed family had received what they wanted.

I said Keisha had obtained a more accurate account of the night her son died and that the city had changed some of its procedures.

I also said she had lost something no corrected report could restore.

Paige nodded.

She looked at her plate for a moment and then asked whether I was still angry at Lorraine.

I said yes, sometimes.

Then I told her I was not angry every time I saw the woman’s house anymore.

Paige wanted to know whether that meant I had forgiven her.

I said I was still deciding what forgiveness meant to me.

I could recognize Lorraine’s fear without wanting her to touch me or speak for me again.

I could wish Paul and his mother a better relationship without being part of their repairs.

And I could be glad that the whistle reached investigators while wishing she had found another way to deliver it.

Paige considered those answers as though they were pieces of a puzzle.

Then she said something that startled me.

Maybe forgiveness isn’t a key that lets somebody back inside, she said.

Maybe it’s just deciding you don’t want to keep carrying their mistakes.

I looked at her across the table.

She was thirteen, still leaving socks on the stairs and forgetting to put the cap on the toothpaste, yet she had found a sentence I would remember for years.

I told her I thought she might be right.

After dinner, we went into the yard and watched fireflies blinking between the hedges.

Lorraine’s porch was lit across the street.

I saw her silhouette move behind a curtain and then disappear.

No one crossed the road.

No one raised a hand.

The evening ended without an incident, and I found that I had begun to value such evenings more than I ever had before.

The first anniversary of the assault arrived without an announcement.

I remembered the date only because a calendar reminder told me it was time to replace the garage camera’s storage card.

I stood beside the same workbench where Isabel had left the blue folder and unscrewed the camera housing.

The repaired side door closed smoothly behind me.