IN the quiet warmth of Winifred’s small, flower-scented room, the air felt heavy, not just with the scent of body cream and fresh bedsheets, but with secrets and regrets that no candle could mask. Orlanda sat cross-legged on the edge of Winifred’s bed, her tear-streaked face still flushed from all the rage and humiliation of the evening. Her hair, loose now, curtained her downcast eyes as she wiped at them with the back of her hand.

Beside her, Winifred sat like a guilty child herself, twisting the hem of her blouse as she avoided her aunt’s eyes. Gloria and Jude, still fully dressed in his work clothes but looking drained,...