Eva stared at the diary. She looked—distant, out of it, and Isabel wanted to clap her hands, bring her back. Make her bear witness. She raised her voice, said, “Have you sold it? How much money could that have possibly been—a few spoons, a knife. Pathetic. I’m certain it was worth the trouble.” Eva said, tar rolled in gravel: “You are blind.” “I was, yes. I was, when it came to you. No more. No—” She touched the back of her hand to her lips, swallowed it down. She did not look at Eva. She said, “Leave.” The kitchen was silent. Isabel said, “Leave this house. Go get your suitcase, leave.”
