"Eleanor," Warren Hawthorne said her name. His voice was quiet, hoarse and low. "That's enough. Don't be like this."
Eleanor Yates finally calmed down, slowly sinking back onto the sofa.
"Jett, Jane's room is upstairs. Eleanor is upset, so we won't accompany you. You two can head up on your own."
That was the first time she had ever seen Jett Westgate bow—a full ninety degrees. Quiet and silent, with an air of reverence, he bowed deeply to Selene Hawthorne's parents.
Several seconds passed before he slowly straightened up.
He moved so slowly that Annelise thought he was using those few seconds to pour all his unsaid words—everything he could and could not say—into that single, ninety-degree bow.
That image stayed with Annelise for a long, long time.
Sunlight streamed through the window, landing on the natural wood floors. Walls lined with books stood as silent witnesses. A man who never bowed remained bowed for a long, long time.
