Liza rubbed her husband’s hand. She admired him for his commitment to his dear friend. If were up to her, she’d be at home in bed, where she belonged. Instead, she sat next to Rick, who looked ten years older than he did a week prior to Tonya’s death. They’d been bombarded by people she’d deemed too unimportant to remember, with their countless words that were meant to bring comfort to them. But they only seemed to serve as a cruel reminder of their loss.
Her insides were on fire. The room swayed. She hadn’t been herself since the detectives paid them a visit. Liza sipped her cold water. It cooled her down, but only temporarily. She glared at Buffie and Chip and tried to quash her bitterness. She and Rick should’ve been at home to grieve privately, not sitting at a table with a girl she didn’t know. Not to mention the fear looming overhead that she would, at any moment, pass out.
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