“You never removed it.”
“I didn’t think I had to remove my own parents from my bank account like malware.”
Courtney made a sound through her nose. “There she is. Amber the martyr.”
I looked at her then. Really looked. She was thirty-two, four years older than me, blonde and polished, with the kind of beauty people mistake for innocence if they do not have to split a bathroom with it. Gold hoops. Pale pink nails. Fresh blowout. A phone faceup on the armchair, the screen still open to a real estate app.
My laugh died.
Voir la suite sur la page suivante:
