“You thought he was a good man,” I told the director, cutting off her description of him. She shrugged defeatedly. “I did. I even . . . cooked for him.” She said it haltingly – either the memory came slowly or it pained her to remember. “I told you he was a heartless bastard,” I said gently, because however hard it is to be Cassandra, it is so much harder to tell a person you care for “I said so.”

At least it is hard for me. I’m not saying I’m terribly noble, and I’m not saying that I can’t be roused to anger – my blood is red, my pulse strong. But I don’t like the unsavoury victories, the ones that involve bad character showing itself and lies coming undone and grown men sobbing in front of their sons. I’d rather not be there for all of that, rather be on the road again, driving through the heat and mosquitoes sticking to my arm.