Turning over rocks in the tidal pool, she watched an army of baby crabs scatter, their stiletto claws clattering for cover, like the lie she told Harry this morning. In the moment, (lord, how she hated that expression) it was audacious but now her swashbuckling bravado sagged.
Picking up a dainty crab, she watched its crooked legs jousting with the air, pincers mouthing, and then snapping shut. Dropping him, she watched him bounce and scuttle away, his shell shielding him from the blow.
The tide rose. Time to talk to Harry and silence the cacophonous din of guilt rattling like a hermit crab in her head.