Countless questions swirl in my mind, but only one matters.
"Why?"
It hangs in the air, thin and brittle like glass. His hate – his fury – burns me where I stand. I need the reason.
He says nothing.
"I remember…" I trail off, unwilling to say I remember my little sister's gossip. "You were younger. Rosalie's age."
Bitterness twists his mouth as something – disappointment, perhaps – flashes in his eyes.
Even his disgusted mutter is a caress, beckoning me toward some unknown somewhere. Why do I want to answer the call?
"Yes, I could always count on the kindness of the Hales."
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