The incessant chattering has paused all sound except for the clattering of pins mechanically lining themselves back up at the end of the alleys. I'm fairly certain every eye at this bowling alley is gaping at me, or perhaps over my shoulder, but my own eyes cannot move from the expression on Kinsley's reddening face.
She's always been pale, especially her hands which are clamped over her lips. Her fingers are long and pretty, I note, absently brushing wood chips from my lap. Although a nagging suspicion begins to set in that she should be holding something instead of her mouth.