"But your mom knows me more than anyone else."
Silence followed.
It wasn't the comfortable silence. It was the kind that pressed down on your chest, the kind that made the ticking of the clock sound too loud. I could hear my own breathing, shallow and uneven, as if my body had already decided that something irreversible had just been said.
Paris tilted her head slightly, studying Rome the way she might study an unfamiliar insect, one she hadn't yet decided was dangerous or harmless. Her eyes weren't hostile. They weren't angry.
They were curious and that was worse.
Curiosity shone too brightly in her gaze and it made my skin prickle in warning. Paris had always been like that, observant beyond her years, quietly absorbing details most children overlooked. I had learned long ago that when she looked at someone that way, she was already building questions in her mind.
