The apartment was quieter than usual when Sheila closed the door behind her, but the stillness was deceptive. The tension between her and Atticus had been simmering all day, and the ride back had done nothing to diffuse it. She tossed her coat onto the nearest chair and sank onto the edge of the couch, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.
Atticus leaned against the kitchen counter, watching her with that unreadable expression she both feared and craved. His jaw was set, hands gripping the granite countertop so tightly the knuckles whitened. The air felt heavy, charged, as if the room itself was bracing for the storm about to break.
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Sheila finally demanded, her voice trembling slightly, but sharp with accusation.
Atticus’s eyes flicked toward her, c
