He sat on the counter, like he had the first time I’d cooked for him. He didn't speak much, just watched me. He offered me a beer; I declined, opting for a soda instead.

"Is he safe?" I asked him.

He swallowed his mouthful of taco casserole. "Yes. He's safe."

"Is he happy?" The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.

Alan sighed, and rested his elbows on either side of his plate. "I wouldn't say he's happy . . . but he's . . . coping."

I placed my fork on the table. "Do you speak to him often?" My voice broke.

"He calls when he can."

I nodded and looked down at my plate.

He perked up. "You want to see pictures of him when he was a kid?"

My lips lifted at the corners. "Yes," I said sheepishly.

"He'd kill me if he found out."

I shrugged. "He's not really here to do that, is he?"

***

We brought our dinner into the living room and finished up eating in there. Alan found six photo albums and placed them on the coffee table. "I know everything is digital now," he said. "But I like to have something physical to hold, you know?"

I smiled, remembering Logan's words. "Yeah, Logan said the same thing about CDs."

"Really?" He smiled back at me. "He told me you said the same thing about books."

I nodded shyly. "Did he talk about me a lot?"

"Are you kidding?" he said. "You were all he talked about." He took his glasses off and pressed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and finger. "I know it doesn't mean much anymore, but he really loved you, Amanda."

Ignoring the conversation, I picked up the first album on the pile and started flipping through it. The first picture was of him as a kid in his little league outfit. You could tell straight away that it was Logan. Even through his forced smile, his dimples still came through.

"That's one of my favorites," Alan said. "Look at him. He was so little for his age, so skinny; not like now." He laughed once. "His clothes are hanging off him." I watched an emotion take over his face. Pride. "His hat's so big, it's almost falling over his eyes." He took the album out of my hands so he could get a better look. An envelope fell out and landed on the floor. I picked it up. "Oh no." He sounded panicked. He held out his hand and said, "You don't want to see those, darlin'."

My eyebrows pinched in confusion.

"They're not . . . happy pictures of him."

"What do you mean?" I squeaked.

He sighed and placed the album back on the table. "They're . . . uh . . . evidence."

"Evidence?" I whispered.

He nodded and cleared his throat. Then he lifted his eyes to meet mine, and I knew instantly what he meant.

"Can I?" I asked.

"Sweetheart, they're not—" He blew out a breath, a look of acceptance on his face. "Okay."

I opened the envelope slowly and shook out the pictures, they landed face down in my hands. Taking a huge breath, I carefully flipped them over.

I stopped breathing the same time that Alan gasped.

This is what monsters are capable of.

I pushed down my emotions and looked up at Alan. "This is what he was like when he was brought in?"

Alan just shook his head, his eyes unfocused, his mind elsewhere. "He was a lot worse. That picture was taken a few hours later, after we cleaned up all the blood."

I slowly flipped through the pictures, one by one. Each one told a different story. With each angle, each body part, I could see Logan as a kid, fading slowly with each hit. Then I got to the last one. It was different to the others; it didn't belong. He was smiling. I heard Alan laugh softly and take the picture from my hand. "He's smiling at me because I wouldn't stop laughing. You know those laughs that build up inside your belly. When you're just so damn happy that you can't contain it? It was the first time he spoke to me." He wiped his eyes and replaced his glasses.

"What did he say?"

"What's that, love?"

I smiled and covered his hand with mine. "His first words to you, what did he say?"

He sniffed once, his lips curling into a smile. "He'd just fallen off his bike. I was putting a Band-Aid on his knee and he said, ‘You're a nice doctor man. I want to be you when I grow up.'"

My eyes went wide with surprise. "And look at him now. He's all grown up and on his way there." I tried to comfort him with my words.

"Yeah."

It was silent for a moment as I flipped through the horrible pictures again. "How long did it take him to speak?"

"He didn't. Not until you showed up."

My eyes snapped to his. "What do you mean?"

His eyebrows drew in as he watched me. "Oh. You mean the first time? Sorry. My mind was—"

"Wait. There was a second time?" My voice rose. I couldn't control it.

He let out a slow breath. "Sweetheart," he hesitated a second. "After that night, with everything that happened to you, and to him, he shut down. He blocked out the world and he turned in on himself. He didn't leave the pool house; he didn't speak to anyone. He barely ate. He barely existed. He turned back into that little boy that I'd first met."

"I'm sorry."

"You have no need to be. That's how he copes with things. He doesn't know how to verbalize things properly. His child psychiatrist warned me about it—that it might never solve itself. She said maybe someday, something might happen, and he could turn right back around. I guess that night, when his father came back—that was someday."