“She’s sitting on the edge of her bed, elbows against her knees and gun clasped in her hands. It’s pointed at the far wall, but her forehead rests against the barrel. “Hey!” I say, darting in and pulling the weapon away from her. “Dammit, Bree.” She looks up at me, eyes red. Her gaze trails to the gun and then back to me. She makes a small pshh noise, and says, “I was just thinking.” “Are you drunk?” She keeps staring straight-ahead, like she can see through my torso. “Are you?” “I’m upset!” she... cries, leaping to her feet. “Is that not allowed? Does something have to alter my mental state before I’m allowed to get emotional?” “Just answer the question.” She glares. “No. I’m not drunk.” She was crying then. I’m not used to seeing her like this, exhausted, eyes bloodshot from tears. Before she can turn away from me, I grab her arm. “Why are we fighting?” “Because he’s going to ruin us—you—and you can’t see it!” she says. “We have absolutely no proof that Harvey won’t turn on us.”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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