He turned on his heel and wended between the handful of other visitors at a brisk clip, leaving Toria to stare after his receding form. Sharp pain pierced her palms, and she forced her balled fists loose before her fingernails broke the skin. Even summoning another memory of Rubin’s death brought no relief, and the full force of his words struck Toria like a battering ram, more crushing than even her bruised ribs.
Hugh was her friend because he was being paid. And her tentative—thing—whatever it was, whatever it might be, with Liam was over before it had a chance.
The deacon on duty spoke with a clump of visitors at the other end of the gallery, so Toria staggered to his vacant bench and collapsed. She curled forward as much as her ribs allowed and pressed her forehead to her palms. All
