ZINNA

From the moment Marion stepped into my apartment on Saturday, I sensed trouble. It was obvious in the way he avoided my eyes, the way he hovered by the door as if he was choosing between entering or running back out. He looked guilty, and guilt never sat quietly on him. It always came with fidgeting hands and a stiff neck.

I crossed my arms and blocked the narrow hallway so he had no chance to slip past me with a fake smile and small talk.

“Spill it,” I said. “What did you go and ...