“It’s a face. A small… very young.. very little-girlish face is reflected in the mirror. I bring a hand to my mouth to keep horrible four-letter words from spilling out. Unlike the soft smile on the statue of Inez Clarke, this face is dark. Frightening. Pitch-black eyes like the night are set against porcelain skin, and her lips are pale. She doesn’t look happy. She doesn’t look alive.”
Something tells me Cass isn’t as tough as she wants me to think. More than anything, she seems sad.
Cassidy stands up with a huff. Her tray is clutched in white-knuckled hands, and I noticed for the the first time that her arm is covered in multicolored silicone bracelets. They look way too cheerful to be on her wrist.