Elizabeth sat up in the back of the car.
She still felt like garbage, but she hated that the others knew what was wrong with her and wouldn’t say what it was.
Aside from being in pain, it was another of those things that reminded her she didn’t fit in.
“Someone needs to tell me what she did to me. I have a right to know why I feel like this.”
“I don’t think now is the right time. I’m not good at phrasing things delicately.”
The compassion Francesca had shown her earlier was gone. She was back to her old self.
It was oddly reassuring.
“I would rather you be blunt than have someone patronize me with euphemisms and pity. Cordelia knew how to hurt me, and she could easily have killed me but she didn’t. Why? I’m alive, you’ve told me I’ll get better, she told me I will be fine. Why is it
