The fragile ones always blink more.
Madeline’s lashes fluttered like a debutante trying to flirt her way out of a traffic ticket. That trembling in her fingers, the way her knees stayed angled inward like a schoolgirl waiting for a spelling test—it was all so predictable it bordered on performance art. Norma had seen all of this before. Hundreds of times. Women made soft by comfort, bruised by betrayal, stumbling through her door like baby deer with vengeance scribbled into their diaries.
And yet, this one had a flicker behind her crystal-blue eyes. Anger buried deep. A match just shy of the strike.
Norma had learned to watch for that.
She stood with slow grace and crossed to the sideboard, where crystal decanters gleamed like trophies. “Drink?” she asked, already pouring.
Madeline ga
