Emma
I threw up twice before eight a.m., which felt like an unfair way to start the day I most needed to look steady.
"Ginger tea," Jake said, setting a mug on the bathroom counter without commentary on the sound he'd definitely heard through the door. "Marisol says nine sharp. We don't have to run late to prove we're not scared."
"I'm not scared." I rinsed my mouth, caught my reflection—pale, hollow-eyed, a stranger wearing my face. "I'm furious. Those aren't the same thing."
"No," he agreed. "They're not."
He'd laid out three shirts on the bed like he wasn't sure which one said *credible witness* instead of *runaway wife*, and when I picked the plainest one, he didn't argue for the others.
"You don't have to wear the jacket," he said. "The one with the shop logo. If you'd rather no
