“Kennedy, I think we should talk,” I whisper to ensure no one hears me. We’ve drawn an audience. When I hold out the crutches, she grabs them with an insulting enthusiasm. They are her only way away from me, after all. Like she’d refuse them. “You know what? I don’t think we do. Forget it ever happened. You don’t owe me anything, Graham,” Kennedy snaps. I stop myself from laughing when she rolls her eyes. Her reaction is adorable. Why won’t she talk to me? If she hates me this much, why did she do what she did? Kennedy could have told the cops everything. Her silence makes me more curious
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