IMOGEN'S POV
The coffee shop Deborah chose was one of those trendy places downtown with exposed brick walls and baristas who looked like they were auditioning for indie films. She sat in the corner booth with her back to the wall, hands wrapped around a mug like it was the only thing keeping her warm.
I recognized the posture. I'd sat the same way once. Hunched over, trying to make myself smaller. Hoping no one would notice the bruises in my soul or the way my hands shook when I held a cup.
She looked up when I approached. Her face was different than it had been on television earlier today. The makeup was gone, revealing dark circles under her eyes and a split lip that powder couldn't hide. She looked like someone who'd been hollowed out and left standing.
"You came," she said.
I slid into the seat across from her. The vinyl was cracked and patched with duct tape. "I said I wanted to talk. Of course I came."
