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She didn’t kill her, but she did watch her die. That’s what gave her the taste.
He’s a liar, a manipulator. A slayer of ten. More probably.
And yet. . .
I don’t articulate the thought to myself, just reach into my pocket and pull out my iPhone. I Google ‘Cindy Bowman’, hit the image tab.
Ten, fifteen, twenty pictures pop up. All of them just like the girl in my mother’s photo frame.
A pulse throbs in my neck, the breath sticks in my lungs. I hear the crack of saliva as I swallow, the beat of my blood.
I turn the frame over; unclip the fastenings, remove the back.
From my mouth, a howl. Low. Wolfish. Wild.
I vomit, double over. The frame drops to the floor. With it the flutter of cloth, white polka dots on blue.
Stained with what I know is Cindy Bowman’s blood.
