“I’m not.”
“Then say you love her.”
He did not answer.
That silence frightened me more than any confession could have.
“You can’t marry someone out of gratitude,” I said.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
His eyes hardened.
“Leave.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“You came here to accuse me. You’ve done that.”
“I’m trying to protect Clara.”
“No. You’re trying to protect your idea of what my life should look like.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“Neither is what you just said.”
He opened the door.
For the first time in my life, my brother asked me to leave.
Three days later, someone painted one word across Clara’s yellow door.
LIAR.
Ethan was already there when I arrived. He was scrubbing the red paint with solvent.
Clara sat on the stairs with her hands over her stomach.
She looked frightened.
A folded piece of paper rested beside her.
I picked it up.
HE DOESN’T LOVE YOU.
HE FEELS SORRY FOR YOU.
ASK HIM WHAT HE OWES YOUR FATHER.
My blood turned cold.
“Who knows?” I asked Ethan.
“Very few people.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
“No.”
Clara looked up at him.
“What do you owe my dad?”
Ethan stopped scrubbing.
“Clara—”
“What do you owe him?”
“He helped me when I was a child.”
“I know.”
“He saved my life.”
Her eyes widened.
