“That was nice at breakfast,” Cat says. “All of us sitting together like that.” “It wasn’t bad,” I say, by way of agreement. Cat looks at me with those dark eyes, always alive and curious, never restful. “You don’t seem to hate Leo as much as you once did.” “We’re not friends,” I say roughly. “But you don’t want to kill him anymore.” Ah. So he told her about that. That’s fine—I own my actions. Even those that might have been driven by a sort of madness at the time. “Yes, I tried to drown him,” I say, refusing to deny it. “You must have been . . . very disappointed,” Cat says, looking at her
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