“You lied,” she finally said. Her voice no longer sounded distant in her own head, and she thanked the alcohol for that. Shaughnessy kept his eyes on his own drink. “You’ll have to be more specific. I’ve lied a lot.” The quiet admission made Gretchen want to hurl her glass at his face, watch it shatter his nose or, better yet, break into shards that sliced at the vulnerable tissue of his eyes. But she wanted the rest of the whiskey more than she wanted that. And he might have trouble answering should she actually go through with it. That goddamn cost-benefit ratio again.
