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“He doesn’t like me reading the newspapers.”
“Yes, and this is why.” Ilse thrust the article back at her.
“I don’t know what you expect me to do about it,” she said hurriedly, sharply waving her sister off with one of her hands, the other going up to her damp forehead. She paced across the room, stopping in front of the window and drawing the curtain back a bit, peeking out. The light fell onto her face in a harsh gold line, darting across one eye like a fiery scar. She focused on a biker speeding past the front of the apartment.
“I expect you to not get involved,” her sister clarified in a hard voice. “Or, rather any more than you already have.” She shot Ilse a rigid look, her lips pressing together tight. The fabric of the curtain beneath her fingers deformed beneath the tension in her hand. “Eva, he’s bad-”
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