”
“What do you think I want?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s the first honest thing you’ve said.”
Her voice was not loud. Laurel had always become quieter when she was angriest.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“For the letters?”
“For the night you left. For not calling afterward. For letting your father decide that silence was a punishment you deserved. For all the years I continue reading …