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Hawk slid his hand down Jacqueline’s arm, slipped his fingers between hers, and squeezed. “She came back after a while, and the family pretended everything was fine. It wasn’t, of course, but we were polite and never talked about anything that mattered, which was the only way we knew how to love one another. Two years later, she cracked again. I can’t remember why. But . . . another few years went by. And this time when she cracked, the final time, I remember the reason.” Jacqueline’s voice grew small. “Though God knows I wish I didn’t.” Hawk drew her closer. The room had taken on a tension, a sense of anticipation, as if the air itself were waiting to hear what she would say next. “She wasn’t supposed to be home. It was her bridge night. My father was away on some stupid sortie or some
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