Brushing tears away with the heels of her palms, she glances up. “I have an overactive imagination, you see, and I just keep picturing some gross old man in our room with his cum on our bed…” She perches her elbows on the table, palms covering her face, agonized. “They saw, didn’t they?” My brows knit, and I shake my head. “Who?” “The way you were staring at Carpenter.” She lets out a guttural noise that wrenches me to my feet. Lady Macbeth springs off her lap.
