At night, Martin and I whispered in bed like conspirators. He believed the worst, convinced this man was exploiting her youth and naivete. I wanted to believe otherwise, but even my optimism had limits. Why the secrecy, if there was nothing to hide? Silence is rarely ever innocent.
The next weekend, she left in a hurry, hair brushed too carefully, her tote bag swinging with determined weight. “Study group,” she declared vaguely, eyes sliding away from mine. I watched from the window as a car pulled up. It was sleek and understated. And I caught a glimpse of him again.