An indignant sound rose from Isabel. Not listening, Eva said, as if Isabel could, as if the sound of Eva’s voice was a choice for Isabel to make. Every day, she had to listen to Eva. Every moment spent in the house and everything about her was too big to avoid: the glare of the sun off her hair, the ring of her laughter, the way her words went high when she put on that act, her night terrors—huffing and restless in the dark, so loud that Isabel could hear her through two closed doors. Isabel couldn’t help but listen, wished she could, wished she— “This is my life,” she ground out. “Do you
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