“Clippings. A photo. A bracelet, I think. He gave it to her. Or she stole it. Depends which version of the story I believed.”
My father would have liked her.
That irritates me.
Sophie reaches for Amelia’s wrist this time, her fingers light over the sleeve where the bruise hides. Amelia flinches before she can stop herself.
The room goes quiet again.
Derby sees it.
Royal sees it.
I see it.
Sophie keeps her hand still, not chasing. “Did he do that? Your husband.”
Amelia looks at the bruise like it belongs to someone else.
“No,” she says.
A lie.
Clean. Automatic. Practiced.
I hate it.
Not because she lies to me. People lie to me all the time. They lie because they’re scared, stupid, greedy, loyal, desperate, or all of the above. I hate this lie because I know why women tell it. They tell it because the truth comes with consequences they can’t control.
Sophie’s voice changes. Gentle, but not weak. “Amelia.”
Amelia closes her eyes. “It happened when I was packing. Jeremy grabbed me. I pulled away.”
“Has he hit you before?” I ask.
Sophie’s eyes cut to me.
Too hard.
Too fast.
I know what she’s saying without words.
Careful.
I ain’t built careful. Not with bruises on women. Not with kids nearby. Not with men who think marriage is a license to terrorize.
Amelia’s face goes pale. “I don’t want to talk about that with a room full of strangers.”
“You’re right,” Sophie says before I can answer. “You don’t have to.”
I grind my teeth.
Derby shifts behind the chair. “I’ll clear the room.”
“No,” Amelia says quickly.
That gets my attention.