Eveline.
The car is quiet, almost like we're both holding our breaths.
Lucian drives. I watch the streetlights slide across his face in strips — gold, dark, gold, dark — and try to read him the way I read everyone, quick and systematic, and get nothing back.
"You're not going to say anything?" I ask, finally, because the silence has teeth in it now.
"About what?"
"About what?!" I turn to look at him properly. "Your brother just accused you of trying to kill him. In front of his wife. In front of his son. And you stood up, said good night, and walked out like he'd commented on the weather."
"What did you want me to do, Eveline? Argue with a man in a wheelchair at his own dinner table?"
"I wanted you to say something." My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to. "Is this how you han
