Hadley Grace
"You know Sloane Kingston?" I ask, my voice low and measured, directing my question at Laurel. The room seems to tighten around us, the air thickening with unspoken tension.
Her eyes widen—a flicker of fear, or perhaps recognition?—before she can school her features. Next to her, Lana clears her throat, shifting uneasily in her seat, her fingers picking at an invisible thread on her sleeve. "No. We don't," Lana replies, but the words come out too quickly, too rehearsed. It's an obvious lie.
