It was a picture of a younger man.
A handsome man.
A man standing beside a woman who looked like his mother.
For a brief second, Clara saw sadness on his face.
Then he quickly covered it.
“What are you doing here?” he snapped.
Clara stepped back.
“I was just looking for a book.”
“You should learn not to enter rooms without permission.”
“I’m sorry.”
She turned to leave.
But before she reached the door, she heard him quietly say:
“Do you really think I’m a monster?”
Clara stopped.
She slowly looked back.
Don Baste was still staring at the photograph.
“I don’t know what to think,” she admitted honestly.
A bitter smile appeared on his face.
“At least you’re honest.”
Clara hesitated.
“People talk about you a lot.”
“I know.”
“They call you terrible names.”
His fingers tightened around the photograph.
“I know.”
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