“what is this …?” Lark’s eyes flick from the item on the table and back to the microwave as it dings. She shrugs. “A ring …?” I let the weight of my gaze hammer into the side of her head, and even though she fidgets, she resists the urge to turn around. “A ring,” I repeat. She nods. “Did you happen to notice it’s attached to a finger in a feckin’ jar?” A nervous laugh trails behind her as Lark moves toward the sink. She grips the stainless-steel edge as though she hopes it might suck her down the drain. When she finally turns to face me, she’s biting her lower lip, unable to control the cringe
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