The night after Rita left Antony's house with Harry was heavy with silence. Antony sat alone, staring at the door Lydia had slammed shut behind her. His hand still stung from the slap he never thought he'd ever give his sister. The guilt was gnawing at him, yet he couldn't shake the bitter words she'd hurled at Rita—at his Rita.
The living room was dimly lit, echoing his chaotic thoughts. He picked up his phone, contemplating calling Rita, but decided against it. She needed peace. She deserved peace. Meanwhile, Lydia wandered aimlessly down unfamiliar streets, rage and heartbreak swirling in her chest. She'd called their parents and cried as she explained what had happened. Their shock was immediate.
"We're flying back," her mother had said. "Don't do anything foolish."
But fool
