A WEEK AGO, SHE’D SAID to Lawrence, “Agnes is back from Montreal—remember Nevina and Maurice’s daughter?”
He’d furrowed his brow. He obviously didn’t.
“Pretty girl.” Ruth felt guilty mentioning her at all, like she was taunting Lawrence, though that wasn’t her intention. Agnes was always on her mind. Everything came back to Agnes, Agnes, Agnes, and she had to say that name. She had to say, “Agnes makes jewellery now. She moved home not long ago. I saw her at the café and she remembered me, if you can believe it.”
“Oh, Agnes.” Lawrence plastered on a smug smile. “The instigator, wasn’t she? The one who got other girls in trouble for shoplifting?”
Ruth’s eyes filled with tears in that moment. Her throat burned and she left the room, escaping to the quiet solitude of her bed.
