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“So, what’s up?” I ask.

She takes a sip of her latte, then puts it down. “I got a call from one of Declan’s victims.”

My eyes widen. “What? Who?”

“Kayla Moss.”

I frown. “Never heard of her.”

“She’s an assistant coach at UCLA now,” Rebecca explains. “She used to play for a high school team in Toronto, where Declan was an assistant coach. She was underage, and he groomed her, seduced her, and then got her pregnant. He forced her to get an abortion, and then left her for another girl.”

“Jesus,” I mutter, feeling sick. “That’s horrible.”

“It is,” she says. “I was horrified when she told me.”

“Wait, how did she get in touch with you?” I ask.

“Apparently, she’s been keeping track of him for years. She wanted to expose him, but she was afraid of the consequences. She signed an NDA and couldn’t risk her career or her reputation. But now she’s been approached by a reporter.”

“Esme.”

Rebecca nods. “Your sister reached out, too.”

“Alycia?”

“You only have one sister,” Rebecca muses, then sees my face and apologizes. “Sorry. This is some heavy shit and making jokes helps me deal with it.”

“I get it. I just wasn’t expecting Alycia to be involved.”

“Don’t be so surprised. Declan was her husband and he made a fool of her.”

“I know. I just didn’t think she’d ever say his name to you.”

Rebecca looks at me like I’ve said something strange. “She already has. She came to my physio session in March and asked me how long.” She picks at the cardboard sleeve on her cup. “I figured she’d told you.”

“No,” I say.

March. The night after Minneapolis she sat at my kitchen table with her mascara halfway down her face and told me to be honest with Valentina and with myself. By then she’d known for two weeks that I had lied to her.

She never said a word. She still hasn’t.

“Is Kayla going on the record? Will she testify?”

“No,” Rebecca says. “She gave Esme some evidence, but she doesn’t want to get personally involved. She has a lot to lose.”

I can understand that. “So what does she want from you?”

“She wanted to know my story.”

“Did she tell you to go on the record?”

“Not exactly. She just wanted to offer support. She told me to call her if I want to talk about it or anything else. I guess she just wanted me to know that I wasn’t alone.”

“You’re not.” I tell her.

“I know,” she says. “But it’s nice to hear it from someone else who’s been through it.”

“Yeah. I’m glad she reached out to you. But what do you want to do? Are you going to talk to Esme?”