The image of Liam’s eyes flashed in her mind—just for a moment, when he had looked at her, there had been something there. Not triumph. Not joy. Something darker. Something trapped. “But if he didn’t want it,” Clara whispered, her voice trembling, “then why didn’t he stop it? Why didn’t he speak up? Why didn’t he fight?”
Her father rubbed a hand over his jaw, frustration evident in every movement. “That’s the question, isn’t it? Was he part of it from the beginning… or is there something we don’t know?” Phoebe’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “He held her hands, Clara. He spoke the words. That’s not nothing. But… he also looked like he was swallowing glass.”