Once, I crushed a beetle with my bare foot.

Nora was faster than me back then. I was all limbs and joints, with little coordination between them. We’d been playing gymnasts on the ­ sidewalk—​­cartwheels resulting in skinned knees and tumbles leading to bits of asphalt embedded in our ­ palms—​­when the ­sun-​­drenched day bled into a dusk that turned our neighborhood downright menacing. Or at least, that’s how it looked to­ six-​­year-​­old me. I peered up from one of my more impressive somersaults and realized Nora was already at the stairs of our apartment building.

I ran after my big sister as if the shadows yawning off the power lines were long fingers that could seize me where I stood. I didn’t even see the bug.

When the shell crunched beneath my ­heel—​­ innards spreading across my foot like jam on toast—​­I expected revulsion. Guilt. Horror.

But none came.

I bent down to inspect the gore, my fear of creatures that slunk out with the fading daylight forgotten. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the insect’s shattered exoskeleton. The ­still-​­twitching limbs. My blood thrummed with morbid allure. A predator discovering prey and, with it, a sick, insistent desire.

A desire I’ve fought against every single day since.

A desire I’ve fought against every single day since.

Staring down at the ­ once-​­blue, ­now-​­gray gum stuck to the heel of my loafer, I try to shake the memory. I don’t have time to dissect my psyche this evening. I’m late.

“Thank you so much for ­calling—”

I nearly jam the phone into my ear canal. “Yes? Hello?”

“Your call is very important to us. Someone from the district attorney’s office will be—”