Killian didn't speak on the walk back to the car.
I let him have the silence, watching the muscle in his jaw tighten and release, tighten and release, like he was chewing through something too large to swallow whole. It wasn't until we were both inside, doors shut against the cold night air, that he finally spoke.
"She died on a service road outside the city," he said, staring straight ahead through the windshield. "Single car accident. No other vehicle involved, according to the report. I was twelve. My father told me she lost control on a wet curve." His hands tightened on the steering wheel without turning the key. "I never questioned it. Why would I? I was a child. It was easier to grieve a mistake than to imagine anything worse."
"Killian."
"I need you to understand something." He
