THE silence after Oswald left was worse than the chaos he had brought with him. It pressed down on Orlanda’s chest like a boulder, cold and merciless, as if the walls themselves were mocking her sobs.

She was still curled on the edge of the narrow bed, knees to her chest, the thin blanket bunched uselessly around her. Her hair stuck to her damp cheeks, her throat raw from where she had choked back her cries until the walls could hold no more secrets.

The door had slammed shut what felt like hours ago, but the echo of it still vibrated in her bones. She could feel him on her...