Page 41 of The Weight of Her Silence
Inside, the chair scraped.
Nate opened the door suddenly. He startled when he saw her.
“Ava.”
She blinked up at him.
“Who were you talking to?”
He was still holding the phone. His hand slid quickly behind his back.
“Work,” he said too fast.
“A client. They’re on a different time zone.”
Ava stared. “You said her name.”
“What?”
“You said Camille.”
He faltered.
“That’s… her name. Camille is the client.”
He managed a laugh, but it was brittle, foreign.
“She’s needy. Wants handholding.
Nothing new.”
Ava said nothing. Just looked at him. Looked through him. She felt a cold bloom behind her ribs.
Nate reached for her shoulder.
“You okay, kiddo?”
She flinched before she could stop herself.
He noticed. His hand fell away.
“I’m fine,” she muttered, stepping back.
“Just hungry.”
He let her go, but his gaze followed her as she disappeared around the corner.
Inside the kitchen, Ava leaned against the counter, pulse thudding in her ears. Her father was lying. She could feel it.See it in the way his eyes flickered when he spoke, how his tone changed when he answered the phone.
And then there was her mother—drifting further and further into herself, quiet, tired, smiling less each day.
Ava closed her eyes and pressed her palms to the cool marble counter.
She didn’t have proof.
Not yet.
But she could feel something rotting beneath the surface of their perfect home and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could pretend not to see it.
