Whatever drunken bravado she had during her outburst fades, all while the uncomfortable silence between us grows. It’s hard to speak, let alone breathe, in her presence, given her addictive scent of flowers, wine, and something I can’t place. I’d spend the whole car ride trying to determine what it could be, but her speaking ruins the idea. “Don’t be angry at Willow,” she says once the lakefront bungalow is in my rearview mirror. “A little too late for that.” Her hands clench against her lap. “It wasn’t her fault.” “Did you force her to talk about it?” “No.” “Then she clearly didn’t have a
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