What was wrong with her? As far as my friends were concerned, there’d always been something wrong with her, but she looked…defeated. Like a broken vase barely held together with glue. Emory Scott never looked like that. She looked down, probably at our hands, and I didn’t tighten my hold or caress her fingers. I just held her. “Look at me,” I whispered. But she choked out a sob, turning her face away so I wouldn’t see. “Don’t,” she demanded. “Please, don’t be sweet. I…” But all she did was shake her head, the words lost. Rage boiled my blood, and I wanted to know what happened. Who hurt her?
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