The hall goes still.
Your mother’s expression changes, but only for a fraction of a second. Then she laughs, soft and incredulous. “Evan, don’t be absurd.”
“I saw it.”
“No, you think you saw something.” Her chin lifts. “Camera angles distort things. I reached past her. She was hysterical. You know how emotional she’s been.”
At that, Lily flinches. It is tiny, barely visible, but you catch it, and something deep in your chest cracks wide open. Because now you can see the architecture of the whole thing. The intimidation. The reframing. The casual threat hidden inside concern. The way your mother uses Lily’s exhaustion as both weapon and evidence.
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