Rosemary tilted her chin up at Horace with a look that said, "Relax, I've got this."
To the casual observer, she seemed to be signaling Horace not to rile up Martha. But Horace, who had spent enough time with Rosemary, instantly understood the meaning behind her gaze. He got the message loud and clear.
Chuckling under his breath, he threw a defiant glare at the female killer, his posture slouched and rebellious, though noticeably less volatile than before.
"The little mutt sure knows how to obey." Martha sneered as she flicked Rosemary's bun, pacing back and forth. "What to do, what to do? I don't catch you every day, and now I find myself almost reluctant to see you dead."
Rosemary raised her clear eyes, her tone as calm as a gentle breeze, "I'm bound to die at your hands sooner or later, so why not let me die with some clarity? Is it because I've returned to this house, threatening your daughter's status, that you think I should die?"
