Michael shifted in his chair.

And Rachel, unable to help herself, muttered something just loudly enough to carry.

“That doesn’t prove she isn’t hurting herself.”

I turned and looked at her, simply looked at her, and she immediately lowered her eyes to the table.

It was a small thing, that flinch, but it told me she knew.

Whatever Michael had told her, whatever story she had agreed to help him build, some part of Rachel knew just how those bruises had gotten onto my body, and she could not hold my gaze while she pretended otherwise.

I have found that the people who help with a lie are often less able to look you in the eye than the person who invented it.