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Terrible.
Awful.
Horrifying.
Horrific.
Think the worst, then multiply it times ten.
“I heard that, too,” she said softly. “What did he look like?”
I swallowed hard at how Malachi had looked last night.
“Truly he looks terrible. It’s hard to even look at him,” I admitted. “And that was only what I
could see.”
She waited patiently.
“He used to have a tattoo on his forearm,” I whispered. “It’s gone now. There’s nothing left but
scarring. Horrible, awful scarring.”
The scarring.
Holy shit, was it bad.
So bad, in fact, that it had to be painful.
It was all still red, as if it was still healing, even after six months.
There was no way in hell that he wasn’t in pain.
“He still has his black silky hair,” I found myself saying. “But that’s about the only identifying
feature he has left. Even his eyes have changed colors.”
“What?” That caught Cora’s attention. “His eyes have changed colors?”
“Definitely depigmentation of the eye,” I said. “I learned in medical school that trauma can cause
it. They’re not the same color anymore. They’re mostly this whitish-gray color. It’s super
disconcerting. And a big change from his old eye color of hazel.”
Cora blew out a breath.
“I heard his face is the worst,” she said. “That he has a lot of scarring there.”
It was.
He’d been hiding mostly in the shadows yesterday at the police station, but I’d seen enough.
“Structurally, his face is fine,” I admitted. “But as for the skin of his face? It’s all puckered and misshapen. As if it was broken and healed. Broken and healed. I don’t… I can’t even explain it.”
She made a sad sound in the back of her throat.
“I’m sorry, Frankie,” she said. “That’s just awful.”
