Seeing the urgency in Quennel's face, Hannah's heart seized. Her mind went blank with a sudden, chilling dread. “Who… who is it?” she asked, swallowing hard. “Is it Lionel?”
Silence descended on the living room. Quennel looked at her, at the fear that had already brought tears to her eyes, and sighed. “Let’s just go. I’ll explain on the way.”
Hannah swayed, her legs suddenly weak. She grabbed the back of a nearby chair to steady herself. “Okay, okay, let’s go now!” she urged, her steps unsteady as she stumbled toward the door, her eyes wide with panic.
Quennel reached for her, then stopped. Seeing her so distraught, he held back, quietly following her out.
In the confines of the car, Hannah stared out the window, her anxiety mounting with every passing second. She squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to face what was coming. Quennel hadn’t told her anything, and she was too afraid to ask, but she had a sinking feeling it was about Lionel. Why else would Quennel be this tense?
At a red light, Quennel saw that she was gripping her skirt so tightly her knuckles were white. He sighed and passed her a tissue. “It’s not as bad as you’re thinking. Don’t be so nervous. Wipe your tears.” His voice was soft, reassuring. “I’m sorry. I was too abrupt just now. I didn't mean to scare you.”
Hannah clutched the tissue, her throat dry. “Quennel, just tell me,” she pleaded, her voice hoarse. “Who is it?”
Quennel’s lips thinned. The light turned green. After a moment of silence, he said, “It’s someone unimportant, but it involves someone who is. We’re almost there. You’ll see soon enough. Now, stop crying. Your nose is all red.”
Hannah bit her lip and nodded.

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