She huddled in his arms like a frightened kitten seeking shelter.
Hearing the door open, she flinched, stiffening, then burrowed even deeper into his embrace.
"Lydia, you’re back." Frederick looked up at me, a flicker of unease in his eyes.
It was the panic of being caught, quickly masked by practiced composure.
"Emily’s rented apartment was awful. There was a barbecue stall downstairs, the soundproofing was terrible, and drunks kept knocking. She just got back from abroad, and her mental state is fragile. The doctor said she shouldn’t be under stress, so I brought her here first."
His explanation flowed smoothly, as if rehearsed.
I changed my shoes and hung my bag on the coat hanger.
I kicked the pink slippers aside.
"The guest room hasn’t been cleaned," I said casually. "The sheets are still in the closet."
Frederick frowned, a flash of displeasure at my coldness.
"She’s afraid of the dark. Sleeping alone in the guest room will give her nightmares. Besides, it’s too quiet. I’ll stay with her in the living room tonight."
Emily finally lifted her head from his chest.
Her face was streaked with tears, eyes red and swollen, lips pale—pitiful.
She looked at me timidly, her voice barely a whisper: