But before I’m compelled to resort to that, her shoulders slump and she falls onto the seat. Dispensing with fork and knife, she tears off a hunk of the avocado toast and devours it. I stand silently and watch as she does it again and again until there’s nothing left. Her relief afterward is palpable.
“Adrian would never have gotten involved with someone like you,” she says abruptly, wiping crumbs from her lips.
I look down on her with pity. “After all this, you really think you knew Adrian at all?”
June bristles. “He was a flawed person. He had secrets, I knew that. But mafia stuff? Murder? That wasn’t Adrian.”
In many ways, she’s not wrong.
The problem is, she’s not right, either.
“Your cut has almost healed,” I observe, my eyes flickering over her wounded cheek.
She tenses self-c
