One evening, Martin slammed his hand against the table. “This ends tonight. Either she tells us the truth, or I walk straight to him and demand it myself.” His voice was hoarse with desperation. I flinched. Nora looked stricken, pale, as though she had dreaded this moment for months.
Her eyes brimmed with tears as she stood. “Fine,” she whispered. “You want the truth? Then you’ll have it. But you have to promise me, you’ll listen all the way through before saying anything. You will not interrupt or judge me.” Her words trembled, but her spine held steady. She looked older than nineteen in that moment.