~ Evie ~
Claire texts.
It’s 11:47 p.m.
"We should talk tomorrow. All three of us."
My stomach flips hard. f**k. We wrecked their room. Their marital bed. We f****d like animals on the same sheets she still sleeps on with Dad. She saw. She had to. The crusty streaks of my c*m and Jack’s on the headboard we thought we wiped, or that damp patch near the pillow that wouldn’t dry in time, or maybe just the way the sheets were bunched wrong even after Jack stripped them. He swore he got it all - threw everything in the wash, sprayed half a bottle of perfume like that would hide the smell of s*x and us. Guess not.
She knows.
I can feel it in my bones - she’s putting the pieces together. The wet-couch excuse, the laundry running way too late for "chores." Tomorrow she’s going to sit us do
