Up at 4am and can't sleep? This is when writing gets done.

There is some frank talk about abortion; you've been warned.

32.

My mind was racing, imagining various things that had happened to G.G., various things she had said and done, what might be happening to her now. I recalled the discovery of the negative pregnancy test months ago, the detective then telling us we had dodged a bullet. But it seemed that bullet had found us anyway, just been a little delayed.

I wondered if G.G. knew she was pregnant. Had anyone told her? Had she already known? Was it George's child? Could it instead be the result of an encounter with a "John"? Which would be better?

I wanted to ask Mr. McCowan about this, found myself several times beginning to open my mouth to ask but closing my mouth again each time. I both did and did not want to know.

Mr. McCowan then had us sign some forms, permissions to get records from G.G.'s school, permissions for things they had already done to G.G., permissions to be interviewed and recorded (both for me and G.G.), and other things, too. I hardly knew what I was signing, although I glanced at each document to make sure it was nothing too nefarious.

My mind struggled to find a way, somehow, to fix things. It had been bad enough when we learned that George had been prostituting G.G., but at least that was over now. These new things, the accusations against us, the pregnancy, I wasn't sure how they could be resolved, but as for the later, my mind began to contemplate if abortion might be an option.

I have always thought abortion to be such a complicated issue, one that didn't directly concern me so long as I followed my father's direction to always use a condom. No baby, no issue. In my mind given how easy and effective birth control is, no sexually active adults should be getting pregnant on accident. Again, if you do what you should, most of the time you never have to deal with that issue, and if something goes wrong, there is the morning after pill, too.

The idea of abortion had always bothered me, the fact that to the woman who wanted it, a fetus was a desired and beloved child from the first moment she knew she was expecting, but to another woman the fetus was an inconvenience, a burden, one that she could destroy if it be her will. How could both things be true simultaneously?

I was old enough to clearly remember how much my parents had wanted G.G., how happy my mom was to deal with all the issues that go along with pregnancy. She even had gestational diabetes, had to test her blood, give herself insulin shots. Yes, it was a sacrifice, but she welcomed it all for the end result.

But this baby that G.G. was carrying, he or she, would alter my sister's life irrevocably. Before this, I had felt there was always the hope that the ship would be righted, that my sister would figure out how messed up things were with George. It had felt like we were on a road slowed by construction, but would reach clear pavement ahead, speed up to 70mph and then all would go on as it should.

But now, now it felt like we were forced off the interstate, detoured, and somehow that detour had gone wrong, put us on a road that just ended at a jungle, a jungle we had to cross somehow, but we lacked the needed supplies, had no machete, had no map, not even a compass and the overhanging canopy made even navigating by the moon and stars impossible. How were we to make our way through?

There had been a plan, get G.G. through high school, give her some time to grow up and mature, and then her life would be back on track. That would mean college, career and all the rest. I had imagined a future where someday I would be walking my sister down the aisle to marry a great guy, a future where I would be Uncle Bill to her kids when mine were already half grown.

I knew G.G. would hardly be the first teenage mom, had even stumbled on an MTV show called Teen Mom a couple of times, but in the sphere we grew up it was just not something that happened to people like us. I could see only one way to get things moving back toward the outcome it should, and that was to roll back time, and barring that, to make it like her getting pregnant had never happened. I needed to know the options.

I Googled the law on abortion in Scotland. I quickly learned it was essentially legal until 24 weeks, somewhat restricted after that, but that no abortion providers in Scotland actually performed abortions up to that date; for that a patient would have to go to England.

But even as I was looking up all this information, I was pretty sure that G.G. would be happy to be pregnant if she thought it was George's child. Just like in the case of trying to get her birth control, whether she continued this pregnancy would be her choice and not mine. Guardianship did not extend that far.

I could not imagine G.G. bearing a child and giving it up, and even more complicated that than, George would have rights the minute such a child drew breath. He would certainly never consent to adoption; he would see such a child as his meal ticket. I thought, perhaps, there was a way for his rights to be involuntarily terminated but was uncertain that even what he had done to G.G. would be enough to get there. I was actually quite sure in that moment that it would not be enough.

I felt sorry for any child that would have G.G. and George as parents. G.G. was so out of control, so focused on some weird kind of hedonism that revolved around George and meeting his sick needs, that I couldn't imagine her putting a child first. A child would just be some kind of accessory to prove she and George were connected, a basis for trying to access her trust fund money.

And then, then, I wondered if G.G. thought her carrying a baby would make Rick and I consent to her marrying Wickham, pretending their relationship was fine. I knew in times not long past, underage girls were married to the ones that violated them, the ones that got them with child. That was one solution to that wrong, a method of appeasing society back in the day, of addressing shame. It was certainly not one I was willing to stomach, but it wouldn't be too long until I had no veto power. G.G. would be 18 in now a year and a half; that wasn't too far off anymore.

Rick's thoughts must have been running along the same paths as mine, for once Mr. McCowan left to get an officer, Rick exclaimed "You know how much I'm against abortion and the death penalty, too, but given this whole situation I wish the George Wickham could be aborted and executed, both."

I took a moment to contemplate that: George never being born; George being gone from this world. Those were nice thoughts, happy thoughts.

"But it is okay to kill during war, conflicts, etc.? For innocent civilians to perish?" I asked.

This was well trodden ground between the two of us. I could not reconcile Rick's inconsistent opposition to killing in the one circumstance and not the others. He'd been a sniper of all things and also liked hunting.

Rick said as he had before, "Killing is never right, but sometimes it is necessary, to lessen the number of lives that would otherwise be lost, to protect democracy, freedom, the right to live unafraid lives. People get caught in the cross-fire; it is inevitable. War is never pretty, but it just works that way when things have broken down.

"But we live in a civilized country where we have resources, rules, options. Babies are innocent, lots of people want to adopt, and even if they didn't as a society we can care for unwanted children. Children should have a turn at life; the cure for birth defects is not preterm euthanasia.

"As for the death penalty, it kills in cold blood. Murders should spend all their years locked up. They should have the opportunity to reform themselves but also suffer for what they've done. Death is too easy for them."

Where ever else our conversation might have gone, I will never know, for just then a detective came in and gave us a quick update on how they had found G.G. and George's current status. Then Rick and I were separated and questioned about G.G.'s accusations.

My interview was in a small room, which had what I suspected was a one-way mirror so that others could be watching as well. There was also what appeared to be unobtrusive cameras mounted near the ceiling and large signs that said "Recording in Process." I figured I had probably consented to that among with everything else I had signed.

The interview started out unpleasant, sure, but the officer was nice enough and I really wasn't too worried. We hadn't done anything to G.G. but try to enforce sensible rules, tried to keep her from running away.

Relieving all I had done to keep G.G. safe, and all the little pieces that had slowly been revealed about what was happening to her, both things she had done and things I suspected had been done to her was particularly unpleasant, as I was forced to relive some truly horrible moments.

I thought I was almost finished when another officer came in. He was a big, burly man who was very confrontational. I had to struggle to remain calm as I went through it all again. He questioned me as if I were the bad guy, as if I were the one who had done unspeakable things to G.G. The way he did it, slinging out accusations right and left, was awful. I was treated as if I were a rapist they were trying to get to confess. I had to defend my actions again and again, deny ever touching G.G. inappropriately, deny ever taking nude pictures of her, deny punishing her when she tried to resist my advances.

I'm not sure how many hours it all took (they'd made me turn my phone off), but eventually lunch was brought in, a sandwich and a coke. They left me in there to eat alone. I don't know if the sandwich was particularly awful, or if I was just too swept up in all the turmoil, but it tasted like sandpaper to me, and I could hardly force down a half with the whole can of soda.

When they returned, they started going through things a third time. Eventually, my bladder let my needs be known, and when I asked to go use the bathroom they delayed me going, saying there were just a few more questions. But those questions seemed to take a long time. When I eventually insisted I needed to go right then if they didn't want a puddle in the room, they let me go but one officer accompanied me.

I'm not sure what they were worried I might do. I had come to Scotland for G.G., I had no intention of leaving without her, and cooperating would be necessary, no matter how ridiculous it all seemed.

Once I was back in the room once again, yet another officer came in. This one was a supervisor. He had white hair and in appearance looked something like a kindly Santa Claus. However, I had no doubt that he could be very forceful and authoritarian if he wanted to be.

The supervisor asked me to write names and contact information for various people I had named as knowing this or that. Mrs. Reynolds, Officer Tupalo, etc., said he would need my permission to talk to all of them. I had no problem with that.

I wrote down the names, but when it came to numbers, I had to get permission to turn on my phone to get all of those. They let me and the ping of unseen messages burst upon me when I could finally get into my address book.

I thought I was about to get out of there, when the supervisor asked me to write down contact info for Ms. Berry and clarified "She's been both Georgiana's therapist and yours, right?"

I nodded.

"Well, we'll need permission for a full disclosure from her, and your doctors too."

That was the first time I hesitated. "I am willing to waive disclosure for G.G.'s records as I expect it is necessary for her care right now, but I don't see what you need my records for. What I talk with my counselor or my doctors about is personal." I sure as heck didn't want these guys learning about what Caroline had put me through, I had learned my lesson with the Meryton police department.

He leaned forward, no longer kind Santa Claus. "I thought you wanted to clear all of this stuff up. That'll be the way to do it."

I stood up then. I felt a lot of self-righteous anger, but I was determined to be calm, measured. I was not about to end up slammed onto a table and handcuffed again. The other three officers stood up too.

The supervisor said "We're not done with this interview, Bill."

I replied, "You may not be done with it, but I am. I've answered all your questions and then some about my relationship with G.G., everything I know of what's gone on for many hours. Rick and I have been working with the authorities back home, her school, everyone to try to help G.G. We come to Scotland to be there for her and instead of getting to see her after she's been missing for months, you want to treat me like I am some kind of criminal.

"I'm convinced now that nothing I tell you will ever be enough and I'm not willing to open up every portion of my life to inspection. I've been talking to my counselor about things I need to work on in my life, coping with various stressful, painful things, but there is no big confession in there because I HAVE DONE NOTHING WRONG, but tried to fulfill my parents' wishes for doing my best at raising G.G., despite everything she has done in the last couple of years to try to sabotage everything. Unless you are planning on arresting me, I am done with this interview."

"Alright," the supervisor said, "we take a break," he glanced at a clock, "I suppose we can even be done for today."

"No, we're just done. If you come up with some question I haven't answered, some clarification you need, I may consider answering those, but I'm not going to waste my time getting interrogated and brow beaten when I put my whole life on hold to come here and be here for my sister, when you've got the guy who was pimping her out, who took her away from her therapeutic school, who probably deliberately got my sister pregnant hoping for a big pay day, sitting in your jail.

"It is an open and shut case, despite whatever crazy lies they are spouting. If you have kids yourself, you know that sometimes they lie to get what they want. G.G. and George are the only ones who think their relationship is okay, the only ones who would say that I'm a bad parent."

I started walking around the table, wondering if they would stop me or not. They did not. Once I got out of the room, I wasn't sure where to go, but after hitting a dead end turned around and made it out to the lobby. I glanced around to be sure, but Rick wasn't there. Although I could see it was storming, I wasn't willing to wait in the lobby, so I walked out of the building and while the rain beat down on me, looked around for the rental car.

I didn't see it, but on the other hand I wasn't sure I would recognize it as I hadn't exactly been paying a ton of attention to it earlier. As the rain wet my hair, my shoulders and all the rest, I hardly felt it. I turned on my phone so that I could try to call Rick. When I was able to call him, he answered on the second ring.

"I'm done with the interview," I told him. "Are you done, too? Can you come get me?"

"Can you see the cafe that's down a block, with the red sign? I'm eating some fish and chips here. You hungry? I'll order you some."

"Okay," I told him, trotting in the direction of the only restaurant. Still holding the phone to my ear I said "I don't want to deal with those cops ever again."

We really didn't talk in the restaurant, but for saying how exhausted we were. Mostly we just ate. The food was greasy but good. It was everything I wouldn't normally eat, but it was comfort food.

When we finished, I let Rick drive me back to the hotel. He drove responsibly, nicely. I guess even Rick wasn't up for pulling any shenanigans, the rain put him off, or he knew I would lose it if her did. Whichever, I was grateful for it. I suppose I should have been checking my texts and stuff, but instead I stared out the windows, not really seeing much of what was passing by, but for the rain sluicing down the glass.