Just Another Struggling Writer

blame

“Your mother never told you what she was doing in my city that day, did she?” Torrence’s voice was low and teasing, a sadistic smile tugging at their lips.

Leema didn’t answer – couldn’t. But her silence was answer enough.

“Of course she didn’t,” the spy continued, still circling her as an animal might circle their cornered prey, “because that would mean admitting that she had done something not just reckless or foolish, but utterly wrong. And we both know the perfect, peerless Mirabel Stone would never confess to being responsible for all those deaths, now would she?”

No. She wouldn’t.