when I was wrong, encouraged me when I doubted myself, and laughed when life tried to humiliate us.
But this woman in front of me looked as if she had learned that speaking only made things worse.
Jennifer took another sip of wine and glanced toward the main house. “And please change before you come inside. You smell like smoke and grease.”
My hands curled at my sides.
I wanted to storm forward. I wanted to demand answers from everyone at once. I wanted to drag the truth into the middle of that glittering dining room and make each of them look at what they had done.
But then Emma lifted one of the heavy pots, and I saw her wince.
Not dramatically.
Not for sympathy.
Just a small, practiced flinch, like pain had become part of her routine.
That was what stopped me from exploding.
Because this moment was
