She avoids my eyes and reaches for the dress. She pulls off the silver brooch pinned to the front. It’s absurdly huge, absurdly glitzy, the point big enough to stab someone with. This old lady didn’t do anything halfway, apparently.
Elyssa sets the brooch on the bathroom counter and raises the dress in her arms. “I’ll need your help putting this on,” she says. She’s still not looking at me.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Well, maybe I don’t have an answer.”
I’d love to be able to press her for one. Or at the very least, press up against her for one. But now’s not the time.
I watch as she steps into the dress on and turns her back to me. She’s hugging herself and goosebumps prickle up and down her spine. She sucks in a breath involuntarily when my fingers brush her shoulder blades a
