I hear myself do the automatic thing in return, the informal you. “You knew her?” His face darkens. “Aye. I knew her.” Griff uses a slightly different word for knew with an edge of fury that makes the hair on the back of my neck rise. He scrapes his fingers through dark curls and his whole face scrunches. He wipes carefully, applies pressure again. And then he murmurs, so quietly I wouldn’t hear it were he not crouched by my ear: “I’m glad you killed her.”
