Her voice was flat, in a way Myrna recognized from years of listening to people trying to rein in their emotions. To squash them down, flatten them, and with them their words and their voices. Desperately trying to make the horrific sound mundane. But Clara’s eyes betrayed her. Begging Myrna for reassurance. Peter was alive. Painting. He’d simply lost track of time. There was nothing to worry about. He was nowhere near Samarra.
