Her name was Margo, short for Margaret Coxworth. She had curly ribbons of hair the color of rust and eyes that squinted like a blind gorilla. Despite her squinting, she never wore glasses or contacts, which I didn’t understand. She was in her mid-forties, unmarried by the look of her bare ring finger, and very, very boring. She spoke with the enthusiasm of a drowsy sloth and would’ve probably made a better hypnotist than community counselor.

I’d been assigned to undergo my ‘rehabilitation process’ with this woman, twice a week, for the next eight months in the basement of a church: St. Mary’s. Even worse, I wasn’t the only one. It was a group thing, and I attended with eight others. We cramped the tiny room, sometimes sitting almost shoulder-to-shoulder, sipping from Styrofoam cups filled with disgusting instant coffee and sharing our stories and confessions with one another. It was supposed to feel good, confessing to my crimes, my sins, and discussing ways I could improve. How I could contribute to society despite my sordid past. It was supposed to reduce recidivism rates and help me integrate back into the society that shunned me at every corner. I was supposed to heal, and maybe in the process, find God or some other such bullshit.

But none of that came to me. God didn’t speak to me. Margo did, though. I didn’t find myself. I didn’t feel forgiven. And I was forced to repeatedly confess to a crime I didn’t commit. If I didn’t confess, they would send me back. If I didn’t listen to Margo and the others talk, they’d send me back. It was like being sent to prison all over again. Worse still, the others were the true criminals. They were the rapists, the molesters, the gang-bangers and prostitutes. And I had to sit next to them and pretend I was one of them. It made me want to throw up in my mouth.

It was on a balmy Friday evening in July when I saw her. I’d expected to see her sooner, but never did. I thought we’d never cross paths again, and good riddance, right? But there Veronica Ainsworth was, all prim and proper in a room full of remorseful criminals. She wore fucking pearls and a grey sweater that was probably cashmere. Damn, the bitch cleaned up nice. Dad had been raking in more dough over the past few decades, and it showed. Most of that money was probably blood money, or drug money, but that didn’t matter anymore. Nica wanted that now. She wanted the expensive jewelry and nice clothes. The mansion and the Ainsworth name. As soon as she’d left Honoria Prison, she’d decided she wanted her old life back. And that meant she was willing to take all the abuse if it meant she could eat her caviar too.

She recognized me immediately, and her reaction was much more visceral than the time she saw me at the Rayners’ anniversary party. “Ryder?”

“Mom,” I purred, grinning at the joke. “How are you?” I dragged out each syllable and watched as her face turned crimson.

“Oh! I didn’t know your mother came here to support you tonight, Ryder! How lovely,” Margo chimed in. “Please, have a seat, Mrs—”

“Oh, she’s not here to support me,” I said, dropping my smile. “She’s a fellow offender.”

A chorus of murmurs descended upon the room. The gap-toothed old guy sitting next to me was practically salivating over Nica’s rack. He patted the vacant seat beside him. “Take a seat, pretty lady.”

Someone said with a high-pitched giggle, “Like mother, like son.”

“So you’re…Veronica, then?” Margo asked, looking down at her list, then back up at my stepmom.

“Yes. I’m sorry I’m late, Ms. Coxworth,” Nica apologized. “Terrible traffic.”

“That’s okay, please have a seat.” Margo gestured to the vacant seat in our circle. Nica’s stilettos echoed across the room as she took her place. She sat down with her legs crossed and clutched her purse protectively over her torso.

Margo ticked something off, then flashed us a nicotine-stained smile. “Well then, welcome everyone. Why don’t we go around and everybody introduce themselves?”

* * *

The ten-minute coffee break was excruciating. While the others refilled their cups, I tossed mine in the trash and considered leaving early. I showed up, didn’t I? Wasn’t that all that mattered? There was no rule against leaving half an hour early.

“I didn’t know you came to St. Mary’s. Do you live around here?” Nica asked. I could see a cashmere sleeve out of the corner of my eyes. Connected to soft, round shoulders and a graceful neck.

“I didn’t come here for small talk, Mom.”

“I hate coming to these things too. The people I’ve met…” Nica must’ve made a face, but I didn’t see it.

My vision tunneled, and I tried to remain calm by focusing on the tray of stale cookies nearby. I had nothing to say to her. No, that wasn’t true. I had nothing decent to say to her. “You’re one of ‘those people’ now, Nica, and so am I, apparently,” I pointed out.

“When did they release you?”

“Last month.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Near Carnegie Library,” I said, neglecting to elaborate. I didn’t need more pity from her. I needed to get away from her before she sank her talons back into my soul.

“I see,” Nica said, her stilettos clicking as she inched even closer. Her cherry blossom perfume was so strong it stung my nostrils.

I was losing my patience with this she-devil. “What do you want, Nica?”

“It’s almost poetic, don’t you think, Ryder?”

“No, it’s fucking not.”

“Look at us. We don’t belong here. Yet here we are. I’ve been going to these things for a while now. Sometimes they’re quite entertaining.” Her voice made me shudder with repulsion.

“I only have to go for eight months.”

“You’re lucky. I need to go to therapy for the rest of my life.” I could hear the disgust and wounded ego in her voice.

“I—” I almost wanted to apologize for what happened to her. Nobody, not even she, deserved to be listed as a sex offender, a pedophile, for life. But then I thought about how she’d gone running back to Dad, how she’d never even bothered to look for me, and I clammed up. She hadn’t wanted anything to do with me. She’d kept Orielle from me her entire life, and when I finally got the chance to meet Orielle, somehow it ended up killing her. What could I say in a situation like this? “I’m sorry. About Orielle.”

“How dare you,” Nica seethed under her breath. “Don’t you dare even whisper her name.”

“She was my family, too.”

“And you used her. Now she’s dead.”

“I never touched her. And I had nothing to do with her disappearance,” I hissed defensively. “I’m innocent, Nica.”

“So am I,” Nica snarled. “But you still made me pay.” I angled my body towards hers and saw her baring her teeth, like a dog with rabies, ready to bite.

“This isn’t the time. Or place,” I whispered, backing up slowly.

“If I were you, I’d skip town, Ryder. Get far, far away from here. Preferably dig yourself a grave and crawl inside.”

“I didn’t do this to her.”

“You might as well have.”

“She might still be alive.”

“Don’t insult me.”

“I would never rape her. Why the hell would I?” I hoped Nica understood my meaning, that she knew, as well as I did, that Orielle may have been my daughter. I had absolutely no motive to harm Ori. None.

“She’s not yours,” Nica snapped.

“Never said she was,” I quipped, desperate to show her I was strong. “But she was my sister. And I never met her till she began working for Rayner.”

Nica shook her head violently, biting back tears. “I should’ve never let her take that job.”

“I think Rayner did it.” I hadn’t meant to voice my suspicions, least of all to Nica, but she was the only one who could probably see my point. “Think about it. We both worked for Rayner. I was doing his dirty work. All of a sudden, I’m accused of rape, shipped off to prison, and she goes missing?”

“Don’t you dare call her that.”

“She was my family.”

“No, Ryder, you have no family.” Nica’s gaze penetrated me like a bullet.

“I can’t imagine the pain you must be going through, but—” I wanted to suggest that we work together. She could help me get justice for Orielle. Help me redeem myself. We could put Rayner behind bars.

“Don’t you dare offer your condolences. Especially after what you put her through.”

It was impossible to reason with Nica. She was too clouded by anger and wouldn’t listen to a word I said.

“Everyone, let’s take our seats,” Margo said. “Let’s start with another exercise on…”

I shuffled back to my seat, ignoring the daggers Nica sent my way. She took a different seat, one that was considerably farther away, and we never spoke again. The next week, she didn’t come, and Margo explained that Nica had switched to Monday/Wednesday sessions. The week after, I was transferred to Janine’s group. It was probably for the best, because it was clear we’d never resolve our differences. Some wounds left permanent scars.