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Butler. Maids. Gardener. Driver. Capo. Priest. Judge. Godmother. Godfather… …the boy.
The heat in my cheeks explodes with embarrassment at the sugar cookie that’s still glued to my fingers. I fell into a man’s arms, dropped my sketchbook, and risked bodily harm, but apparently none of that matters to my subconscious because at least I saved my dessert.
Same.
“Don’t worry, I believe you.”
His whisper is terrifyingly calm, heavy with promise, and latent with threat. “Who did this to you?”
Sorrow slams into me again. I’m not sure it ever left, yet I remember it’s there when it randomly hits me like a freight train without warning throughout the day.
