Chapter 9: Brooke's Coffee

I picked the coffee shop myself.

It was on a corner in a busy part of the city, with glass walls and a line out the door.

I wanted witnesses.

Jonas took a table by the window, twelve feet away, with a newspaper he never opened.

Dominic had wanted to come.

I had told him that if he sat at that table, Brooke would only see a rich man.

I would learn nothing.

He had said "Okay" in the smallest voice I'd ever heard from him.

I put my phone on the table, face down, with the recorder running.

Brooke arrived four minutes late.

She wore a cream sweater and a gold chain and her hair fell perfectly straight to her shoulder blades.

Her eyes were red.

She had put on tear-colored makeup.

"Abby." She slid into the chair across from me and reached for my hand. "I'm so sorry. I've been sick about it."

I let her take it.

Her nails were pink and long and clean.

Mine had been scrubbing her toilets four days ago.

"About what?" I said.

"All of it. The way we treated you." She sniffled. "Mom's been out of her mind. She never meant to hurt you."

"She held an iron to my wrist."

"She was frustrated."

"I was eleven."

"You scorched my skirt."

She stopped, flushed, and laughed.

"I mean, that's not what I meant. We were all stressed, and we didn't know how to say it."

"Tell me about the hair."

Her smile twitched.

"What hair?"

"When I was fifteen. You cut it off in the bathroom while Dwight held me down."

"You said no one would look at me, and I should be grateful."

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