“What’s wrong?” I reach out to touch her face, but she flinches. At her movement, I catch the sight of blood. It’s on her face, down the front of her shirt, and on her hands. It’s even streaked on the window. I was gone for less than five minutes. “Who did this to you?” I snarl. She shakes her head. “What happened?” I ask. “Are you hurt?” “It’s not my blood.”
