“What makes you think that?” Dexter asked, dropping his phone onto the nightstand. His eyes tracked my movements as I climbed into the bed, sitting beside him.
“The whole ordeal. The entire scene. It’s just… I don’t know,” I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “Isabella’s crying felt so fake. She didn’t care about Grandpa when he was alive. Now, suddenly, she’s acting like the world has ended.”
Dexter stayed silent for a moment, then shrugged. “Maybe she’s trying to make up for lost time. People regret things when it’s too late.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You’re defending her now?”
“No,” he said calmly. “I’m just saying people grieve in strange ways.”
I scoffed, shaking my head. “I’m not buying it. She’s always been like this—manipulative, selfish, calculating. Crying now doesn’t mean
