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Sleep wrapped itself snug around her wrists and ankles and waist and pulled her down hard against the mattress.
Wonder if she watches? Wonder if she loves me the way I love her?
She’d been so afraid of what his anger might unlock in her, but here it was, pointed right at her, and it was so small.
Daphne does not look at Vera as though she is seeing her daughter. She does not look at Vera as though she is seeing a human being. She looks at Vera as though she’s looking at some small damp animal that got into the mudroom in the night and died, like she can smell the death of it and resents having to dispose of it.
