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And now they were waiting for her to say something.
“I’ve slept with him,” she said.
Annabelle Benjamin had a voice that you don’t easily ignore. It wasn’t masculine, like her eighth grade tormentors liked to point out, not really, but it did have a grainy huskiness to it that you would have expected from a smoker far beyond her years; it had a timbre she figured she must have inherited from her father. Maybe you could pretend you didn’t hear, but when she said something you did hear.
And they heard her.
Into this vacuum she added, “He wasn’t that special.”
Lois almost said something, but whatever had occurred to her turned to nervous giggle instead. She turned from Annabelle and looked at the others, at Vivica, at Dorothy and at Heather in turn, should she believe her ears? Then back at Annabelle.

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