“Speaking of siblings, you have one, don’t you? A sister.” Gretchen’s nails dug into the soft flesh of her palm, and she welcomed the pain. “Fran,” she managed, through a clenched jaw. “I take it your relationship wasn’t rosy?” Marconi asked in a voice far too gentle, far too understanding. It made Gretchen want to scratch either herself or Marconi until blood spilled onto the floor. She didn’t care whose it was. “Those inductive skills of yours are nearly Sherlockian,” Gretchen bit out, the tone too mean. But she couldn’t help it. Her brain wasn’t designed to truly factor in consequences.
