Emily's mother wouldn't stop touching his shoulders.
She'd done it four times now — once when he'd carried Emily through the front door, once when he'd laid her on the bed, once when he'd pulled the duvet up to her chin and smoothed her hair, and once more just now, in the kitchen, while he stood at the counter and lied through his teeth with a smile so gentle it could've cured cancer.
"She fainted at the club," he said. "Too much excitement. The game, the dancing — she pushed herself too hard. Nothing serious."
Emily's mother — small woman, kind eyes, the hands of someone who'd spent twenty years taking care of the family and still managed to keep flowers on the kitchen table — looked up at him with gratitude that made something behind his ribs crack.
She squeezed his shoulder again.
