I thought knowing would make it easier.
It didn't.
It just made everything louder.
The house was quiet in the way only late nights could be, no traffic, no neighbors moving around, just the low hum of electricity and the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. I sat cross-legged on the couch, my laptop open but forgotten, my phone lying beside me like a weight I didn't want to pick up.
Nathan's voice echoed in my head.
"He's a bully, Emily.
People like him don't change."
Then Eleanor's.
"Leo once hit Nathan.
He never admitted anything."
Different mouths. Same story.
That was what bothered me.
I stared at the ceiling, trying to replay the moments I'd heard it, first from Nathan, relaxed, confident, enjoying the attention. Then from Eleanor, hesitant but firm, wrapped in concern that felt almost maternal.
The details lined up too well.
The trophy.
The argument.
Leo's silence.
