We talk a while, Sam and I.
“Where did you find that journal?” he asks.
“Back there—way back, behind the stones,” I say.
We are both sitting on the ground.
I sense he’s done this, sat here, many times since it first happened.
“So many people have been all over this place. I’m surprised no one noticed it before,” he says.
“Lila,” he says, “what is your goal here?”
I sense his mistrust of my journalistic purpose.
It’s almost dark.
“Sam, all I want to do is find out who Ainsley really was. I don’t want her only exposure in the media to be as a monster,” I say.
My eyes meet his. They are a fathomless brown, reflecting the emerging moon.
Those dark pools flood with tears, and I can understand how Ainsley felt about him.
“She wasn’t a monster, Lila. I refuse to believe that,” he says.
“So, tell me who she was to you. That’s what I’ll print. You tell me. And here, take this. I’m done with it,” I say, pressing the journal into his hands. “It should be with you now,” I say.
He looks at the battered book in what is almost fear.
“Thank you, Lila,” Sam says.
“Okay, Sam. Let’s talk.”