ZINNA
From the moment Marion stepped into my apartment on Saturday, I sensed trouble. It was obvious in the way he avoided my eyes, the way he hovered by the door as if he was choosing between entering or running back out. He looked guilty, and guilt never sat quietly on him. It always came with fidgeting hands and a stiff neck.
I crossed my arms and blocked the narrow hallway so he had no chance to slip past me with a fake smile and small talk.
“Spill it,” I said. “What did you go and tell my brother?”
He opened his mouth like he might try to talk his way out of it. Marion was good at many things, but lying never made the list. His eyes darted down. His fingers scratched his neck. His entire posture shifted like a man deciding how much trouble he was willing to walk into. Finally, he
